


Trick of the Light

by msgenevieve



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, F/M, Happy Ending, Jossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-01
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:57:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 47,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The first time she thinks she sees him, she blames the complimentary Mai Tais.</i>  Written as Season One wrapped up. Contains spoilers up to #122.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_The flame of anger, bright and brief, sharpens the barb of love._

~ Walter S. Landor

 

~*~

 

The first time she thinks she sees him, she blames the complimentary Mai Tais.

She's been at this godforsaken conference for two days. Two days of sitting through lectures on subjects that have no relevance to her current role. Two days of making pointless small talk with people who rarely venture out of their gilded private practices. Two days of avoiding the less than subtle advances of ego-inflated, BMW-driving idiots hoping for a bit of 'away from home' fun.

This conference was not her idea. The last thing she wanted was to spend half a week with nothing to do but think about what had happened at Fox River three months ago.

The Pope, however, had thought it would do her good to 'get away'.

Needless to say, the irony was not lost on her.

After the first day, she learns that the quickest way to cripple an unwanted conversation was to answer truthfully when asked where she worked. Only the most ill-bred – or drunk – fellow conference attendees would dare voice the questions she can almost hear humming at the back of their throats. Pity wars with curiosity in their eyes, and it is always a relief when the subject is clumsily changed to the latest advances in MRI technology.

To make matters worse, the conference schedule includes an inordinate amount of downtime, which means empty hours that need to be filled with meaningless tasks. She's not immune to the beauty of her surroundings, but she's hardly the most appreciative audience. She resents the handsome, seemingly carefree men and women she sees strolling along the streets and the beach, hates the easy atmosphere of sun and sand and sex.

Despite this, she's still driven by a need to escape from the four walls of her hotel room. Her skin is pale, bordering on pasty, and she distracts herself from her resentment by taking great care to cover every inch of exposed skin with sunscreen whenever she ventures to the hotel pool. The sun bites into her skin, making her restless, and she keeps to the shade as much as possible. She doesn't swim or socialize; both would require baring herself in some way, and she is ready for neither. She stakes out a claim on a recliner in a particularly secluded spot and tries to convince herself that she is interested in the romance novel she bought at the gift shop.

Late in the afternoon of the second day, exasperated with the idiotic musings of her book's heroine, she looks up to see Michael Scofield walking across the manicured lawn between the pool and the hotel restaurant.

She sits up, her novel tumbling from suddenly nerveless fingers, her thin white shirt sticking coldly to the hot skin of her back as she scans the casually dressed human traffic ambling along the lawn.

He's not amongst them.

Of course he's not, she tells herself. How could he be? Why _would_ he be?

Picking up her book with a trembling hand that owes nothing to the alcohol she's consumed, she slowly gets to her feet. Her face is hot, her scalp itching with what feels very much like mortification. She smiles politely at the desk clerk as she passes, but forgoes the ritual of asking if there'd been any messages left for her. It feels too much like tempting fate.

That night, despite the combined effect of cool sheets and four Mai Tais, she can't relax, her mind and her body whirring with a dozen impossible things. When she does finally drift into an uneasy sleep, she dreams of blurred lines and the feel of smooth skin beneath her hands. When she wakes, it's to the taste of stale rum and the realization that she is as far from forgetting him as she can possibly be.

 

~*~

 

The second time she thinks she sees him, on the afternoon of the third day, she blames the sun.

It's a poor excuse for logic, considering that her sensible straw hat hasn't once left her head, but what other explanation is there? What possible other explanation could there be for the fact that she has just seen Michael Scofield in a small local market in Barbados? She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head and glares into the light of the afternoon sun and the milling crowd around her, her heart suddenly hammering.

He's not there, just as he wasn't there the day before.

But if he's not there, she wonders, how can the fleeting glimpse of his profile be burned onto her retinas, much like a foolish child's eyes after having looked too long at a solar eclipse?

She sucks in a deep, shaky lungful of warm air, then realises belatedly that she is on the receiving end of an indignant glare from the stallholder whose brightly printed sarong she is now twisting in her hands.

"You like that one?" he asks politely, his expression making it quite clear that a purchase would be highly desirable.

"Yes, very much, I'll take it," she mutters as she fumbles for her purse and hands him too much money, her eyes still frantically searching the crowd around her.

She makes her way quickly back to the hotel, smiling blandly at the people she recognizes from the conference, her heart pounding in time with the slap of her sandals on the hard ground.

_It's not possible. There's no way he could be here. No reason for him to be here. It's been three months and there's been no sign, no sightings, no word whatsoever. _

_It's not possible._

It's only when she reaches the sanctuary of the hotel foyer, her skin still jumping with the odd, lingering sense of being watched, that she finally allows herself to accept how badly she wants to be wrong.

 

~*~

 

Although her appetite is vastly diminished, she knows if she doesn't eat she'll regret it later. She orders room service, unwilling to make polite conversation either at the bar or over dinner for the third evening running. She sits alone on the small balcony and picks at the fruit platter, eats a respectable amount of the cold seafood salad and drinks two glasses of white wine. The sun dips beneath the horizon, staining the sky pink and indigo, and although she feels a grudging appreciation for the sight, it's pretty much wasted on her. And that makes her quite angry, but she's not sure exactly what she should do with her anger.

She has a few ideas, though. She closes her eyes against the beautifully streaked sky, her fingers tightening on the stem of her wineglass.

_Damn you, Michael._

There are times when her anger towards him makes her uncomfortable in her own skin. He lied to her, used her without a second thought, but he was never anything but unfailingly courteous towards her. From the first moment of their first meeting, he had been charming – all the better to manipulate her, of course, but charming nevertheless – and almost chivalrous in his dealings with her. He risked his life to save hers, and as chivalry goes, that's pretty tough to beat. She shies away from the memory of a hand reaching out of the ceiling, his eyes pleading with her to trust him. It's hard to be resentful when she lets herself remembers that moment, and her resentment has become as familiar a companion as her anger.

Sara places her empty wineglass on the tiled floor beside her with an audible clink, then leans back in the lounge chair, one hand over her eyes. Perhaps she should have gone downstairs to the restaurant for dinner. Perhaps making bland conversation about Botox and celebrity patients would have been preferable to being alone in this room with her thoughts. Sometimes, putting up with bland company is better than the alternative. Sometimes, like tonight, it feels as though she's been angry for so long, she's forgotten how not to be.

Even her dreams have been angry.

Before the escape, she'd dreamed of him. Dreams that woke her with a gasp, tangled in twisted sheets, her mouth dry, her heart pounding, her skin hot and tingling. Dreams that left her feeling as though she had to hide her eyes from him the next day, as though he'd only have to look at her and he'd see what she had seen, that he'd _know_.

In the first two weeks after the escape, a dark fury had invaded her dreams. She'd started to dream of screaming at him to tell her why, _why?_, slamming her fists into his chest, pushing him away so hard that he would stumble. But no matter how much she shouted and shoved, he would never say a word. She would wake with a sob rather than a gasp of imagined pleasure, her face wet with tears.

Later - three weeks? Four? - her dreams changed, anger morphing into a sharp, twisted hunger, her guilt and regret and lust mingling and becoming something much more unsettling than anger alone. She began to dream of Michael's mouth silencing her enraged accusations, her pounding fists uncurling to pull him hard against her, her helpless sobs burning silently in her throat at the feel of him deep inside her.

In the real world, Michael Scofield has kissed her only once. It was gentle, desperate, and a lie.

It was a lie, but she can't forget the taste of his mouth and the feel of his skin beneath her palms. She remembers the way he'd looked at her when she'd pulled away, as though he'd just discovered the answer to a question he hadn't realised he'd asked.

In the weeks after the escape, she had spent more time answering questions than she had spent doing her job. That alone had been enough to make her prickly, tempting her to be uncooperative, but she'd known better than to give the authorities - the Pope, the police, the FBI, those damned dark-suited men with shadowy eyes who actually smirked at her when she was foolish enough to admit that her relationship with Michael had been a 'cordial' one – any more reason to put a big black mark next to her name.

And now here she was, three months later, no closer to sorting out her life, seeing Michael on every street corner. If it were happening to someone else, she'd suggest they give Oprah a call.

The phone in her room rings just as she's trying to find room for the remains of her dinner in the bar fridge. It startles her enough to make her stub her toe on the corner of the fridge door as she hastily swings it shut. Swearing under her breath, she walks gingerly across the room, unable to suppress a flicker of concern as to who might be calling her here. Perhaps it was the locum standing in for her at Fox River – he wasn't the brightest person she'd ever met and he hadn't been her first or even second choice for a replacement, but the decision hadn't been hers to make – or perhaps it was Katie. It would hardly be her father, she thinks dryly, given the tone of their last meeting.

She drops onto the bed as she picks up the receiver, absentmindedly smoothing a pillow with her other hand. "Hello?"

There is no answer.

Sara frowns. "Hello?"

There is a faint sound of a cut-off breath, then the dial tone.

She stares at the phone, the receiver suddenly slippery in her hand as a cold wave of intuition twists her gut and she suddenly _knows_.

She'd been wrong.

It hadn't been the sun or the alcohol.

Michael was _here_.

 

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sara's alcohol consumption in the first chapter of this story was written before #120 (in which we learned more about her approach to cross-addition). I adjusted the storyline to fall more in line with her canon background from Chapter Two onwards.

_The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple. _  
~ Oscar Wilde

 

She drops onto the bed as she picks up the receiver, absentmindedly smoothing a pillow with her other hand. "Hello?"

There is no answer.

Sara frowns. "Hello?"

There is a faint sound of a cut-off breath, then the dial tone.

She stares at the phone, the receiver suddenly slippery in her hand as a cold wave of intuition twists her gut and she suddenly knows.

She'd been wrong.

It hadn't been the sun or the alcohol.

Michael is here.

_It's impossible_, she tells herself, but she knows only too well that nothing is impossible when it comes to Michael Scofield. _You're imagining things_, she tells herself next, but her gut tells her that she is not.

She disconnects the line from her end, then immediately presses the quick-dial button for the reception desk. When the cheery voice of the desk clerk comes on the line, she clutches the receiver a little tighter. "This is Dr. Tancredi in room 447. Did you just put a call through to my room?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"There was no one on the line when I picked up. I don't suppose the caller gave you their name?" Sara presses the phone hard against her ear, holding her breath.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but the gentleman didn't give his name. It sounded as though he was calling from a public phone box, if that helps?" The girl pauses. "Would you like me to screen your calls for the rest of your stay?"

"No, it's fine," Sara hears herself say. "I doubt he'll be calling back."

Ice slides through her blood as she slowly places the receiver back into its cradle, then rises to her feet, backing warily from the phone as though it was a coiled snake, waiting to strike.

Michael is here. Here in Barbados.

He is here. And he has been watching her.

_My God._ A hundred different thoughts are pounding in her head, pressing against bone and sinew, dragging her straight back into the hell she'd finally started to put behind her. She stumbles against the edge of the bed as she takes another step backwards, then makes her way on unsteady legs to the balcony, suddenly filled with the urgent need for fresh air in her lungs. Dropping gracelessly into the lounge chair she'd vacated only a few minutes earlier, she covers her face with her hands, draws a long, shuddering breath, and remembers everything she's spent the last three months trying so hard to forget.

 

~*~

 

_When she opens her eyes on what she thinks is her fourth day in hospital, the Pope is at her bedside. For a brief, foolish moment, she thinks it is her father. _

_"How are you feeling, Doctor?"_

_His deliberate use of her formal title is a subtle sting that registers even amidst her considerable physical discomfort. Her head is throbbing, her throat is scraped raw and her entire body feels as though its been pummelled with both fists and feet. She's never been one to complain of self-inflicted wounds, though, so she merely offers the warden a simple, "I've been better."_

_She glances around the room, trying to get her bearings. The door of her private room is shut, and the warden is not her only visitor. In addition to the uniformed police woman sitting in a chair just inside the closed door, there is also an officious looking, dark-suited man leaning against the wall near the window. She glances at him quickly before looking away, taking with her the vague impression of knowing his face. Perhaps he was the man who read her her rights the first time she regained consciousness in this room. Perhaps she only dreamed that one-sided conversation, seeing as she didn't seem to have been arrested as yet. It's hard to say. Although her head is clearer than it has been in days, her thoughts still feel like so much cotton wool._

_"I need you to talk to me, Doctor." The warden's voice is calm, but anger is etched in every line on his face and soldered into the rigid set of his shoulders._ He's aged five years since I last saw him,_ she thinks dully, and another layer of guilt settles like a shroud over her thoughts. _

_"Of course." Her heart is racing, but she gestures calmly towards the water jug on the bedside table. "Do you mind if I-?" As she speaks, she pulls herself up into a sitting position. It's hard not to feel more than a little disadvantaged by lying in bed wearing hospital issue nightwear, and she is going to need all the reinforced courage she can muster for this conversation._

_"No, no." Henry Pope pours her a glass of water and hands it to her with every appearance of concern, which is actually more than she would have received from her father had it actually been he at her bedside._

_She takes several long gulps of water, then sets down the glass with a thankfully steady hand. "Is this a formal interrogation?" she asks softly._

_Pope hesitates, and she sees anger warring with the remnants of their professional friendship. Finally, after exchanging a long glance with the man seated near the door, he shakes his head. "Not at this stage. I know you've been informed of the basic facts of the situation. I need you to tell me whatever you can to help us get to the bottom of this mess."_

_"I'm so sorry." She draws in a deep breath, gathering her scattered wits about her as best she can. "I made a terrible mistake."_

_Disappointment floods his face, as though he'd been wanting her to say anything but what she just has. "I see." Those two words are filled with more anger than she's ever heard in his voice._

_She wants to close her eyes in a vain attempt to soften the throbbing in her temples, but she meets the Pope's accusing gaze unflinchingly. It's been a long time since she's had to lie to an employer, but it seems as though it's an ability not easily lost. "If only I hadn't left early to see my father, none of this would have happened."_

_He stares at her in obvious confusion. "What do you mean?"_

_"My father was named as a potential running mate to the Vice President that afternoon." She looks away, a very real sense of anger and loss burning in the pit of her belly. "Of course, he didn't bother to tell me that himself." She knows she sounds like a churlish teenager, but perhaps that's a good thing. "I had to hear it from someone else."_

_"I don't quite see how that fits in with this situation."_

_She tries to clear her raw throat, fails, then reaches for the glass of water once more. "It was foolish of me, I know," she says quietly, cradling the glass in her cupped hands, "but my father and I have several unresolved issues, none of them pleasant. I took some personal time and went to see him."_

_Realisation slowly replaces the confusion in the Pope's eyes. "I take it your meeting didn't go well?"_

_"Well, you know my father." She shifted awkwardly on the bed, conscious of three pairs of eyes watching her. "I came back to work later in the afternoon to make sure that Katie had managed to tie up all the case files I'd left for her, but that was obviously a mistake."_

_The warden's eyes gaze locks with hers. "She said that you seemed distracted."_

_"I was." Her eyes blur with tears once more, and this time she can't keep them at bay._ Damn you, Michael._ "I was upset and angry," she says thickly, praying for atonement for the lie she is about to utter. "And obviously distracted enough not to realise I hadn't locked down properly. I still can't believe I made such a stupid mistake." She hates herself, hates deceiving this man – a man who had always been so good to her - but she has spent several hours in this bed with nothing else to do but plan the right answers to the questions she knew were coming. She doesn't much care what happens to her at this point, but she made the conscious decision to help Michael and she will see it through to the bitter end. As shattered as she feels, she will not give up his secrets, not even to this man._

_He glances down at the IV in her arm. "I know that I don't have to tell you that your actions on the evening of the escape," he continues politely, and Sara bites back the urge to interject with the word 'overdose' because she doesn't need any more help pretending it didn't happen, "could be seen as an admission of guilt."_

_"I know." She swallows hard, then opens her eyes to find him watching her with something that looks very much like fatherly concern. "My timing could have been better."_

_"Was this your first relapse? Since you came to us, I mean?"_

_Sara closes her suddenly burning eyes. "Yes." Her eyes blur hotly, and she dashes the tears away with the back of her hand. "I have – had - been clean and sober for almost three years." _

_Three years. And she had thrown it all away in one moment of blind, self-pitying madness._

_"So why now?"_

_She can feel a hysterical burst of laugher starting to bubble up inside her. God, as if an overdose could ever be rationally explained. If she could even begin to understand why she had succumbed to the siren song of oblivion and shot a near-death sentence into her arm, she'd be able to save every addict in the world. "I'd like to blame my father, but I'm afraid that would be over-simplifying matters." She looks at him. "Do you know if he's been here?"_

_The warden looks faintly embarrassed. "He's in Washington at the moment. I believe he is being kept apprised of your progress."_

_Sara bites her bottom lip, uncaring that her teeth press painfully against dry, cracked skin. "Right."_

_He studies her for a moment, then clears his throat. "I need to ask you about Scofield."_

_Her dark thoughts shift from her father to Michael with unsettling ease. Her hands tighten around the glass, her fingertips pressing hard on the cool, slippery surface. "What about him?"_

_His eyes lock with hers. "Your nurse has suggested that your relationship with him may have gone beyond that of doctor/patient." _

_A cold queasiness settles in the pit of her stomach even as her face grows hot. "I won't deny that I liked him, because I did," she answers quietly, forcing herself to hold the warden's gaze. "But there was no inappropriate conduct on either side. I just thought he was a good man, despite his circumstances." She shrugs, doing her best to project an air of disappointment. It isn't difficult. "I guess I was wrong about him."_

_He nods, an oddly pained expression tightening his craggy features. "You weren't the only one," he mutters darkly, then rises to his feet. "I must warn you, Sara," he says almost gently, using her name at last, "that you'll need to be prepared for a thorough investigation."_

_Her stomach flips over once more, and she wonders vaguely if she can make it to the end of this conversation without throwing up. She lets out a shaky breath, then carefully reaches out to return her water glass to the table beside her bed. "Have they been recaptured?" It's a perfectly valid question, given the line of defence she's chosen to take, but she still regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth._

_Pope shakes his head. "Several of them are still at large," he mutters, putting his hand to the back of his neck, tilting his head to one side as though trying to stretch stiff muscles, "including Burrows and his sonofabitch brother." There's a harshness in his voice she's never before heard. "Something that is of great concern to our new administration."_

_The knowledge that Michael is still alive hits her like a punch to the stomach, slicing effortlessly through both anger and betrayal like a hot knife through butter. Praying that her reaction isn't emblazoned all over her face, she nods calmly. "I see." The full extent of his words hit her then, and she frowns. "New administration?"_

_"You don't know?" He sighs, and once again she thinks how tired he looks. "Of course you wouldn't know." He glances again at the dark-suited presence near the window, then turns back to her. "I'll have the nurse bring in a newspaper for you."_

_"I'd appreciate that."_

_"Try to get some rest." He lifts his right hand, as though he's tempted to pat her on the arm, then lets it drop to his side. "You're going to need it."_

_The dark-suited man follows the warden from the room, leaving her alone with her uniformed guard. A few minutes later, a nurse slips into the room. She puts a copy of the Tribune on her bedside table, refills the water jug and checks the intravenous drip, then leaves as silently as she entered. Grateful for the distraction, both from her thoughts of Michael and the sight of the gleaming IV needle embedded in her pale skin, Sara picks up the newspaper. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the fine print – it seems like an eternity since she's read anything at all – but the headlines are quite unmistakable. The newspaper begins to crackle as her hands begin to shake._

_President Richard Mills is dead. _

_Caroline Reynolds, the sister of the man whose murder had put Lincoln Burrows on death row, has been sworn in as the forty-sixth President. _

_And Frank Tancredi, her father, is now the Vice President of the United States of America._

_Sara drops the newspaper onto the floor beside the bed, uncaring of where it falls. She rolls over onto her side, careful not to disturb her IV, until she has her back to the silent police woman sitting by the door. Burying her face in the depths of her pillow, she concentrates on her breathing and the never-ending chorus of hospital life around her. She cannot let herself cry – if she does, she might never stop – but despair rises up the back of her throat, threatening to choke her. Despair for herself and her fucked up failure of a life; for the people she respected but still betrayed; for the father who now has everything he wanted and not a single part of it connected to her; for Lincoln, who now stands convicted of murdering a member of the President's family, and for Michael, who has been reduced to nothing more than Burrows' sonofabitch brother._

__

~*~

_ _"You know, I didn't think that you could actually top being found high as a kite and in possession of stolen morphine in the registrar's office, but I guess I was wrong."_ _

_Sara says nothing. She's not sure what has her reeling the most – the fact that her father is now the Vice President of the United States, or that he has actually bothered to tell her this news in person before telling her what a complete and utter disappointment she is to him. Of course, it is perfectly in character for her father to have her brought to him – in a new government limo, no less – in order for him to lay down the law as to what was expected of a Vice President's daughter._

_"I've spoken to the DA," he announces now, having finished telling her that this is the last time he is going to save her from her sordid little habit._

_She stares at him. "You did what?"_

_Her father flicks an invisible speck of lint from the cuff of his snowy white shirt. "Did you think that after all the trouble I've gone to keep you out of headlines that I'd let this latest stunt of yours ruin one of the most important weeks of my life?"_

_Rage squeezes her throat like a fist until she can hardly get the words out. "My latest stunt?"_

_"What else would you call it?" He raises his eyebrows. "What's that bullshit phrase they use? A cry for help?" He snorts. "Give me a break."_

_She looks at his face, really looks at him, studying the man whom she has known all her life but is still a stranger to her. She knew when she was ten years old that nothing she did was ever going to be good enough, and yet here she is again, her stomach twisted in knots in the face of his disapproval. "There's really no point in me trying to explain, is there?"_

_"I doubt it. I'm pretty sure I've heard all your excuses, Sara. You're going back into rehab. This afternoon," he adds before she can even open her mouth to speak. "Not that crackpot place you were in before – I think we all know what a waste of money that turned out to be."_

_She stares at her father's well manicured hands as he tells her that a car will take her home to collect her things – right now, in fact, a Vice President's time is obviously scarce – and she wants nothing more than the courage to tell him to shove his influence and his power and his protection. But she doesn't. She can't afford to throw away the only lifeline she has, and he knows it as well as she does and she's not sure who she hates more for that, him or herself. _

_Her father has always thought everything in a person's life could be explained, divided into neat little boxes. He believes that anyone who steps outside the lines of convention does so because they want to – he's never understood how the darkness can grab you by the throat and pull you away from everything and everyone, making you oblivious to anyone's needs but your own._

_"I've also spoken to Warden Pope," he continues, the sound of his voice barely scratching the surface of her resentment. "He was reluctant at first – and I can't say I blame him - but he eventually agreed that it would be in everybody's best interests if your position was kept open until you returned."_

_Her gaze snaps up to meet his. "I'm not sure I can go back to Fox River." She's not yet strong enough to spend ten hours working with the people she deceived, the place where Michael made a fool of her, the room in which she betrayed everything she'd sworn to uphold. _

_She's not sure she ever will be._

_"What, after telling me for years that it was the best place for you to be?" Her father shakes his head, his tone openly mocking. "I'd be grateful for the offer, if I were you. I think you'll find most potential employers tend to shy away from people with your, how do I put this, colourful history." _

_She frowns, not quite believing what she's hearing. "I'm sorry, are you coercing me?"_

_"All I'm saying is that if you leave Fox River now it will be under a cloud of suspicion, despite the fact that no charges have been laid against you. If you stay, it will only serve to reinforce our stance that you had nothing to do with the break out." _

_"And that looks so much better for you, doesn't it?" Her voice is thick with both anger and tears she is determined not to shed. "Because God forbid you actually put someone else's well-being or interests before yours."_

_Her father smiles at her, but his eyes are cold. "Like father, like daughter, right?" He snorts. "There's nothing as unattractive as a sanctimonious junkie, Sara. I know you like to believe that we're nothing alike, but when's the last time _you_ put someone else's needs before your own?"_

_She looks away, twisting her hands together so hard that the skin pulls tight over her knuckles, and tries very hard not to think of Michael Scofield. _

 

~*~

 

_"I'm so, so sorry. But I was so worried about you, and when we couldn't get in touch with you, I thought they – he – might have done something-"_

_Sara presses her lips together into a hard line in order to stop herself from telling Katie that Michael would never have let that happen. "I understand," she says finally._

_"My job was on the line." Katie isn't a crying person, but her eyes are glittering dangerously. "And you know how much I need –"_

_"I know. You did the right thing." Sara forces a smile as she lightly touches Katie's hand. "And I'm more grateful than I can ever say."_

_She means it. Katie did the right thing and Sara knows and understands why she did it. She is grateful because she wouldn't be sitting here now if Katie hadn't told Pope of her suspicions. _

_Picking up a sofa cushion, Sara cradles it in her arms, trying to think of something to say that doesn't sound stilted and rehearsed. Katie had knocked on her door half an hour ago. What's left of their coffee has grown cold, their hesitant conversation stale._

_"When are you coming back to work?"_

_She blinks at the blunt question, then shrugs. "My suspension remains in effect for another two weeks. After that, I don't know."_

_Katie frowns. "But I thought your father –"_

_"He did," Sara says shortly, trying and failing to keep the bitter note out of her voice, "but I felt it was best to take a bit more time to sort out a few things."_

_Katie nods as though she understands, as though she can even begin to comprehend what Sara has been through over the last few years. "Are you coming back at all?"_

_"To be perfectly honest with you, I don't know."_

_The word 'honest' hangs between them like an unspoken recrimination, then Katie gives her a hesitant smile. "You wanna go grab a bite to eat or something?"_

_"I'm a bit busy today, actually."_

_They look at each other for a moment, and Sara sees the end of their casual friendship reflected in Katie's dark eyes. "Sure thing. Maybe when you come back to work?"_

_"Sure."_

_They both know it's a lie, but it's easier than facing the truth._

 

~*~

 

_"Sara?"_

_"Yes?" Sara's reply is automatic, but when she looks up from her newspaper into the eyes of the woman speaking, her whole body freezes. It's been several weeks since she's seen Veronica Donovan, but even with closely cropped hair, boyish clothes and grey tinted sunglasses, she would recognize her in a heartbeat. _

_Veronica slides into the long seat on the other side of the booth, managing to look both casual and wary at the same time, her body language reminding Sara of a cat tentatively exploring a new environment._

_The other woman's covert air is a forcible reminder of what has gone before, and Sara glances hurriedly around the coffee shop, her pulse suddenly hammering. "What are you doing here?" The words come out as an unsteady whisper. "How did you even know I was here?" She's more than a little shaken. She had thought herself invisible in this unfamiliar coffee house on the outskirts of the city - a coffee house at which she had stopped on a whim. If Veronica could find her so easily, then she was far from invisible. _

_"It's okay," Veronica says in a tone that's obviously meant to be soothing, but it only serves to inflame Sara's nerves. "There's no one tailing either of us and I'll be out of here in less than two minutes."_

_"Why are you here?" Sara repeats the question, her voice stronger this time. _

_"To see how you're doing."_

_She suddenly feels as though she's swallowed a mouthful of broken glass. "Why?" Veronica just looks at her, and Sara shakes her head. "Forget I asked."_

_Veronica puts her elbows on the table between them, her gaze a blend of concern and curiosity. "Are you going back to work at Fox River?"_

_Determined not to ask how Veronica knows that she hasn't yet returned to Fox River, Sara picks up her coat from the bench beside her and lays it across her lap. Her hands are shaking, she notes with detachment. "I haven't decided."_

_Veronica's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "I know you've been through a lot."_

__Lady, you don't have the faintest idea of what I've been through,_ Sara thinks, but she merely shrugs. "It was rough but I survived."_

_Veronica nods. "I hear you."_

_The two women share a long, silent look, and Sara knows Veronica can see the question burning in her eyes. But she will not ask about Michael. She will not ask, even she though wants to know so badly that the words are almost burning a hole in her tongue._

_"They're okay," Veronica finally says softly, her expression softening. "And they're grateful."_

_Sara's stomach begins to churn. This was risky territory, not only for her carefully constructed denial but also for her rapidly weakening resolve not to care about Michael Scofield. "Where's your friend?" she asks abruptly, needing a distraction for both of them. "What was his name, Nick?"_

_Something dark flickers in Veronica's eyes. "He's dead."_

_"How?"_

_Veronica's faces. "How do you think?" She glances away, and Sara sees that her eyes are wet. _

_Sara's breath catches in her throat. "I'm so sorry," she whispers unsteadily, not quite able to believe that the vibrant, determined man she'd met only weeks ago was dead. _

_Veronica looks back at her, her expression remote. "This thing goes much deeper than we first thought."_

_Sara holds up her hand. "Please don't say any more." The words give her a hollow sense of déjà vu. _

_"Don't worry, I won't." The other woman gives her a brittle smile. "You're safer not knowing."_

_Sara inhales sharply. Oh God, it wasn't over. While she was here wallowing in her guilt and her misery and her anger, there were people out there still fighting for the truth about Terrance Steadman to come out. Still fighting for their lives. People like Veronica and Lincoln._

_People like Michael._

_Before she can say anything, Veronica slides out of the booth. "I have to go." Pushing her glasses to the top of her head, she looks down at Sara and gives her a half-smile. "Be careful."_

_Sara gets to her feet as well, torn between wanting to prolong the contact with this last link to Michael and wanting to run and pretend this conversation – and the last few months - never happened. The skin on the back of her neck begins to itch, making her long for something to numb the sensation, and she knows that this meeting, however brief, is dangerous in more ways than one. "You too."_

_"Always." Veronica hides her eyes with her sunglasses once more. "Is there any message you'd like me to pass on?"_

_Sara stares at her, conscious of the sudden thrum of her pulse fluttering in her wrists, at the base of her throat. The memory of Michael's kiss is suddenly burning on her lips, but this is no longer about the two of them. _

_It never was. _

_"No." Michael had once risked his life to save hers at Fox River – she had been in his debt, but now they were even. She needed to reclaim her life, and she needed to start right now. There was no point simply swapping one addiction for another. Lifting her chin, she gives Veronica a cool smile, her heart slowly crumbling with every word. "There's nothing to say."_

 

~*~

 

On her feet now, her elbows pressed against the cool metal railing, Sara stares unseeingly into the early evening crowd that fills the street below her hotel, her face damp with tears she doesn't remember shedding.

Several weeks after her meeting with Veronica, and she is as far from reclaiming her life as she was on the night of the escape. She has been back at Fox River for over a month, yet she may as well not be there for all the difference she feels she makes. She and Katie still work well as a team, but there are no gossipy lunches, no coffee outings after work. The COs who once treated her with respect now refuse to meet her gaze – all except Bellick, of course, who looks at her with pure loathing in his eyes. And the Pope, after a tense conversation in which he made it quite clear that her reinstatement was not of his choosing, has made a point of keeping his distance. It wasn't for her benefit alone that she'd been sent to a week-long conference in another country.

However, despite all of this, she would still leave that door unlocked if given a second chance. Lincoln Burrows hadn't murdered Terrence Steadman. Her actions had saved an innocent man from the electric chair.

It's not quite that simple, of course. She can't hide behind the sole excuse of taking the moral high ground. No matter how she looks at it, no matter how she tries to justify it, the bottom line is that she was stupid enough to imagine herself to be falling in love with a man who had barely managed to utter a dozen truthful words to her. Her heart still tries to tell her he had spoken the truth when he told her it hadn't all been an act. Her head knows better.

Michael had clouded her thinking in a way that the drugs never had. The connection she felt to him had whittled away at her judgment, zeroing in on every single chink in her emotional armour. She'd never realised that empathy could be so dangerous. Lincoln had told her that Michael had been abandoned his whole life, a feeling Sara knew all too well. His psychiatrist, too, had told her many things. She didn't even want to remember how deeply the words _Michael came to me with little or no self-worth_ had affected her, let alone his opinion that Michael was a genius who couldn't ignore the suffering of others. Sara wasn't a genius, but she hadn't become a doctor because she wanted the BMW and the big house.

That it was Frank Tencredi's lies and Michael's long-overdue honesty that had helped her make her decision was the ultimate irony. _I did what I could. I gave my father the information._ She had trusted her father to do the right thing, and he had once again chosen his ambition over her. To this day she doesn't know why she'd been so shocked to learn that he hadn't even bothered to read the file she'd given him. Until that moment, standing in the middle of his club, surrounded by the laughter of his minions and cronies, she'd still believed that he'd done the best he could. And then he'd told her that he'd done nothing at all, breaking her heart for what felt like the thousandth time, and suddenly her decision seemed that much clearer.

Her blind faith in her father had come to nothing, and their poor, pallid relationship seemed even more pitiful compared to the one that Scofield and Burrows shared. Michael loved his brother so much that he'd been willing to give up everything – his career, his freedom, perhaps even his own life – to save him. When he'd finally dropped his guard and spoken to her with such brutal honesty in the infirmary on the day of the escape, it had been a revelation. She had been almost frozen with anger, but she'd also been stunned by the depth of his emotion. She could only imagine what it was like to love someone like that – to _be_ loved like that.

For Michael, it had never been about her, or even himself. It had all come down to saving his brother's life and the lengths to which he was prepared to go. In fact, when she'd discovered exactly which prisoners he'd chosen to take along for the ride, her belief that he would have never allowed any harm to come to her had finally been shaken. Abruzzi was bad enough, but that he had chosen to free someone like Bagwell – even if it had only been temporary – in the quest to save his brother was an unwelcome confirmation that Michael Scofield was one of most ruthless people she'd ever met. She's very glad she never had to find out, one way or another, how much her life was worth compared to the success of his grand plan.

She stares blindly into the strolling crowds for a few more minutes, then lifts her head. "Damn it." Before she can change her mind, she walks back inside and flips off the main overhead light, leaving the room bathed in nothing more than the soft lighting coming from the ensuite. She doesn't bother to unlock the door. If he is determined to see her, something as simple as the lack of a hotel passkey isn't going to stop him.

"This is crazy," she mutters, running her hands through her dishevelled hair, refusing to give into the ridiculous urge to check her reflection in the mirror. She does allow herself a critical glance down at her clothing, musing that the Fox River doctor Michael knows would never been seen in loose drawstring pants and a fitted t-shirt that proclaims her love for Barbados. She's never bought a tourist t-shirt before in her life, but it seemed churlish to refuse the small child who'd offered it to her. She realised later, of course, that the child in question was probably as seasoned a salesman as the slickest Chicago secondhand car dealer, but these are the things you chalk up to experience.

Sara walks across the room, rubbing her bare arms with her hands, then casts a longing look at the bar fridge. She looks at it for quite a while, then turns her head away, angry with herself for still being able to taste the Chablis she drank earlier on the back of her tongue.

She returns to the balcony, the embers of a slow-burning anger beginning to glow in the pit of her stomach. She could blame the unfamiliar sun and the boredom and the frustration of feeling as though she's just – still – treading water and going nowhere slowly. She could blame the hollow ache of isolation that gripped her as she watched her peers mingling in a world that was no longer hers. She could blame the fact that her skin is still jumping from the sensation of being watched by a possibly familiar pair of eyes. It doesn't matter why. What matters is that she wasn't strong enough to resist a fucking complimentary Mai Tai and two glasses of overpriced wine. If she's not strong enough for that, then what makes her think she's strong enough to see Michael Scofield?

She runs nervous hands through her hair once more, knowing that she is only making it worse. The humidity in the air has made it unruly, and she gave up trying to do anything decent with it after the first day here. She looks a mess and she feels a mess, but somehow that seems the appropriate state in which to face the man who left her and her life in such hopeless disarray.

She was right. This _is_ crazy – she should call hotel security, the police, even the Pope – but she has no intention of touching that telephone. This is something she needs to do. If she loses her nerve now, she will regret everything she didn't say to him for the rest of her life.

She stands on the balcony of her hotel room, a thousand miles from Fox River, and she waits. She has no idea how much time passes - her watch is sitting on the small desk in the room behind her - but she suspects knowing the time would make no difference to the odd, floating sensation that has invaded her body.

When she hears the soft click of the lock, she closes her eyes, her fingers gripping the metal railing of the balcony so tightly that her fingertips begin to sting. She hears no footsteps, but she can imagine his measured tread only too well.

"Sara."

The memory of his voice has haunted her for months, but hearing it now is almost surreal. She looks down at her bare arms, unsurprised to find goosebumps rippling across her skin despite the warm night air. She closes her eyes, prays for the strength to do this, then turns around.

He is standing just inside the room, half-hidden in the shadows as he leans against the frame of the sliding glass door. She cannot see his face, but she feels the familiar weight of his gaze all the same. Her heart hammering wildly, she is torn between the impulse to pick up the lounge chair and throw it at his head or to obey the command from her nervous system to slide to the ground in a shaking heap.

She doesn't speak. She can't. Her voice seems to have vanished along with her bravado. After what feels like several hours, he moves into the light just enough for her to see that he looks for all the world like a college graduate on holidays. Long-sleeved green hooded shirt, blue jeans, sneakers. He's unshaven, holding a baseball cap in one hand and wearing fashionable black-rimmed glasses she knows he doesn't need. _Still in disguise,_ she thinks hazily.

Seeing him in her dreams has been disturbing enough. Seeing him in the flesh makes her feel as though someone has reached into her chest and squeezed her heart in their fist.

"You shouldn't be here," she tells him, and is surprised at how normal she sounds. As though she converses with men who seduced and betrayed her every other day. As though the mere sight of him isn't breaking her heart all over again.

"I know."

"Then why are you?"

The sudden flash of heat in his gaze has her taking a step backwards, but there's nowhere for her to go. "Well, if you'll excuse the cliché," he answers slowly, the faintest hint of a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "I think we need to talk."

 

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

~*~

 

_One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter._

~ James Earl Jones

 

"You shouldn't be here," she tells Michael, and is surprised at how normal she sounds. As though she converses with men who seduced and betrayed her every other day. As though the mere sight of him isn't breaking her heart all over again.

"I know."

"Then why are you?"

The intent look in his eyes has her taking a step backwards, but there's nowhere for her to go. "Well, if you'll excuse the cliché," he answers slowly, the faintest hint of a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "I think we need to talk."

She folds her arms across her chest, tucking her hands under her arms. "What would you like me to say, Michael?" After so much time spent thinking about him, it feels odd to say his name out loud. "That I'm happy to see you? Or maybe should I ask how the weather is wherever you happen to be hanging out these days?"

He pulls off his glasses, casually dangling them from his fingertips. His eyes are just as clear and vivid as she remembered. "Say whatever you like."

She leans back against the railing until the metal bar begins to push into the curve of her spine. She focuses on the discomfort for ten slow seconds before offering him a calm, "I'm glad you're alive."

He looks faintly taken aback, then flashes what she suspects is meant to be a disarming smile, and _god damn him,_ it almost works. "That'll do."

_Breathe. Just breathe._ "Why are you here?"

"I told you."

"I know what you told me." The fact that she sounds as though she's in total control of her emotions pleases her quite a bit. "I'd like to know the real reason."

A flicker of irritation flashes across his face. "Do you really need to ask?"

"Yes, I do. Because I thought I actually knew you, if only a little bit, and then I found out that I didn't know you at all." He looks away, and she feels a small thrill of vindication.

"I came to apologise." He stares out into the darkening sky. "To explain." He turns his head, his gaze snagging hers once more. "And to thank you."

"Why now?"

"I could hardly visit you at Fox River." A smirk curves his mouth, and it's so familiar that her fingers itch to trace the curve of his bottom lip. "The security is a little more lax here."

She barely restrains the urge to smack her palm against her forehead. Even harder to control, though, is the urge to smack _him_. "You've been watching me."

"Yes."

She frowns at him. "Ever since I arrived?"

He has the good grace to look embarrassed. "Yes."

It hadn't been her imagination, the Mai Tai or the sun. It should make her feel better to know that she hasn't been seeing things, but it's rather difficult to see the positive side of the situation at this point in time. "Why?"

"I had to be sure."

"Of what?"

"That you were here alone." He glances over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the room behind him. "That no one else was watching you."

"What do you mean?"

He takes one step backwards, half-disappearing into the shadows once more. "Your father's moved up in the world, Sara."

He's moving about the room now, running his fingers under the edge of the small writing desk, looking behind the framed print on the wall. "You changed rooms on the evening of your first day here."

She shouldn't be surprised that he knows this, and yet she is. "Yes."

"Why?"

"The first room was on a smoking floor so I requested to be moved." Annoyed that her automatic response was to answer him without a second thought, she eyes him warily. "Why?"

For a moment, he doesn't answer – he's too busy examining the telephone – but then he gives her a brisk smile. "Just wondering if your father was keeping tabs on you."

"You're checking for surveillance?" She snorts with derision. "Please. He's got more things to worry about than whether or not I'm disgracing the family name at a second-rate medical conference."

He replaces the telephone receiver and looks at her with something approaching sympathy. "I'm sorry about that."

She takes a deep breath and steps away from the balcony railing that seems to have become her security blanket, walking to the sliding door to watch as he moves around her room. "Did you think I'd have the Secret Service standing guard outside my room?"

"You tell me."

As if by tactic agreement, their conversation is being conducted in loud whispers, the type used by bad stage actors to indicate a dreadful secret being imparted. She knows full well that her father accepted her refusal of a watcher – one less thing they will owe each other – but that doesn't stop her suddenly feeling as though every word is one more risk they're taking.

"No," she tells him, if only to stop him wandering about her room. "I wanted to be as anonymous as possible, and it's hard to be anonymous when you have hired goons trailing after you." He grins at that, and her stomach clenches. "But I doubt you'd let a little thing like that stop you, anyway. I'm guessing you didn't just walk into the hotel through the foyer like a normal person?"

That earns her another grin. "Good guess."

She watches as he peers into the small bathroom, feeling perversely as though she is being ignored. "Are you here alone?"

An odd stillness comes over him, and he suddenly seems very interested in the lamp on the bedside table. "I came here alone, yes."

"Where's Lincoln?"

"He's safe." He glances at her with unreadable eyes, a muscle in his jaw fluttering. "For now."

"And the others?"

A half-smile touches his lips, as though he finds the question amusing. "You don't really expect me to answer that."

"I guess not."

He's watching her, and she's tries to ignore the fact that he is doing just that, then she gives herself a mental shake. _Enough of this._ Straightening her shoulders, she looks him in the eye. "Well, this is all very nice, Michael, but if you've finished saying what you came to say, I think you need to leave." There's a tightness in her chest, the kind that only comes when you're trying very hard to keep it all together and you know you're about to fail very badly. "Because you're not doing either of us any favours by being here."

He carefully places his baseball cap and glasses onto her bedside table, his movements as measured as always, and she can't help thinking that his belongings don't look out of place there. Then she tells herself that she is a fool.

"I came to thank you for saving Lincoln's life."

She shakes her head. "Don't."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want the responsibility of being his salvation," she snaps, her voice growing louder. "_You_ saved him, Michael. If I hadn't helped you, you would have found another way. I was just another cog in your grand plan."

"That's not true."

"You can stop lying, Michael."

"I'm not lying."

"Lincoln's alive and you're free." She doesn't let herself think about the fact that both those facts could be altered in the blink of an eye. "You got exactly what you wanted, so you may as well drop the act."

"I'd tell you that it wasn't all an act, but we've already had this discussion, remember?" He speaks slowly and softly, but she still gets the impression that he's gritting his teeth. "As I recall, you didn't believe me then, so I doubt you'll believe any answer I give you now."

"I can't afford to. I believed in you, Michael. Worse than that, I trusted you." She doesn't bother to mask the accusation in her voice. "We both know what happened to the people who believed and trusted in you."

His face tightens, and he suddenly looks every one of his years. "It wasn't supposed to play out the way it did."

"I very much doubt that's of much comfort to Westmoreland."

Some dark emotion flares in his eyes. "Charles knew what he was getting into."

"Unlike the rest of us," she shoots back, her words steeped in bitterness.

His gaze narrows, but he merely says, "You weren't supposed to be involved."

"So you keep saying. Look, this is pointless," she continues quickly before he can speak, knowing that if she can keep talking, she can keep him at a distance. "Why are you here, risking your freedom?"

He says nothing, his eyes locking with hers as the ghost of a past conversation rises up around them, and she sees the distance between them for the illusion it is.

_Why are you here, crawling around in the ceiling, risking your life?_

_You needed help, and I came to find you. _

They stare at each other, the warm early evening air suddenly thick with everything they've refused to admit to each other. Wrapping her arms a little tighter around herself, she can't deny that she is as far from immune to his saviour complex as she ever was. He may not have come here to rescue her, but she suddenly wants to let him take her away - from herself, from the disaster that her life has become. Wants it so badly that it's in danger of becoming a physical ache.

But she can't. He may have saved her once, but he's the last person who can help her now.

"You shouldn't have come here." Her heart in her mouth, she steps into the room, forcing herself to walk past him. He makes no move to touch her, but she feels his eyes on her with every step she takes.

"I had to see you," he says in a quiet voice behind her. "Veronica told me that you were doing fine, but I just - " He breaks off, and by the time she's turned around, he's staring at a non-existent mark on the carpet near his right foot.

She half perches on the edge of the writing desk, arms folded across her chest – _defensive body language at its most obvious_, she thinks unhappily – and is at a loss as to what he expects from her. She scarcely knows what she expects from herself. All she knows is that the longer he stays in this room, the harder it is to keep her distance, to maintain the tightly clamped lid on her emotions. She is determined not to give into the temptation to shrilly act out three months of hurt and frustration. She knows full well that such a course of action would not end any better than it had in her dreams. Michael Scofield wrote the rule book on emotional camouflage. She could rant and rave at him until her throat is raw, but he will never be able to give her the answers she wants to hear.

Finally, he turns to look at her, his voice little more than a whisper. "I wanted to -" He hesitates, but only for a few seconds. "I know how difficult it would have been for you. Afterwards, I mean."

"Difficult?" Her temper splinters, making her forget her resolution to be calm in one unthinking heartbeat. "You have _no_ idea what helping you has cost me, so don't you dare come here expecting forgiveness."

He holds up his hands, whether in surrender or appeal, she's not sure. "I'm not asking for forgiveness. I just wanted you to know -"

"I know enough," she cuts him off. "My father delighted in telling me all the sordid details before they hit the press."

His face tightens. "That was nice of him."

"Wasn't it?" She gives him a brittle smile that makes her lips feel cold and stretched too thin. "He took great delight in telling me how you'd done your homework on everything and everyone you intended to use." Her mocking smile fading, she lifts her chin to glare at him. "What about me, Michael? Did you do your homework on me, too?"

"Yes."

Sara had no idea that one word could hurt quite so much. She'd wanted the truth from him, but now she can't help but crave the false comfort of ignorance. "Be the change you want to see in the world," she finally whispers, realisation dawning with terrible clarity.

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his silence all the confirmation she needs.

"You had a copy of my _senior year book_?" Saying it out loud sounds even more ludicrous than thinking it. He still says nothing, but there's no need. She already knows the answer. "Jesus, you really did do your homework, didn't you? What else do you know about me? My social security number? My shoe size?" She feels sick. "How about the name of my childhood dog?"

"Sara-"

"It was _all_ a lie, wasn't it?"

"No."

"God, you just can't stop lying even now, can you?"

"Listen to me." His eyes burn into hers; she wants to look away, but she forces herself to return his gaze. She is not afraid of him, only of herself. "I walked into Fox River knowing your face and the story of your life, but I didn't know you."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"I was there to save my brother's life. End of story. Nothing else mattered. I expected to make both friends and enemies, but I didn't expect -" he breaks off, looking annoyed with himself.

She tries to ignore the stuttering of her heart. "What?"

He looks at the darkening sky, then at the ground between his feet, then finally at her. "I didn't expect _you._"

"Right." She scoffs, wishing she could ignore the frantic pulse beating at the back of her throat. "Michael, if you're about to tell me that I was the best part of your day, please spare us both the embarrassment."

"I wasn't," he shoots back, his voice hardening, and she feels – stupidly - as though he's slapped her in the face. "The best part of my day was any time I managed to spend with my brother." He pauses, and she has the sense that he is choosing his words with great care. "My time with you was something altogether different, something hidden from everyone else." His eyes never leave her face, and she can't stop the answering flutter of her pulse any more than she can stop breathing. "Something I wanted as well as needed."

"Right," she says flatly, his flattery ringing as hollow as his insistence that he never meant to involve her in his machinations.

"You have to understand that everything I did, I did for Lincoln."

"You know, Michael, I get that. I _always_ got that." Suddenly feeling chilled, she rubs her hands up her bare arms, stopping when his gaze begins to follow the movement of her hands. "I envy you, you know," she adds, realizing it's a rather odd thing to say to a fugitive with a price on his head, but it's the truth. "I can only imagine what it would be like to have someone care that much." She doesn't add _about me_ but she suspects they both hear what she doesn't say.

He opens his mouth to speak, pauses, then offers her a cool, "Your father cared enough when push came to shove."

"Excuse me?"

"No charges were laid against you and you kept your job."

_And I bet that made your conscience feel so much better_, she accuses him silently. "My father did what he did in order to protect his career, not me."

"Still the cynic, I see."

Resentment leaps up a notch towards anger, and she knows that she's reached the official end of her tether. "I think you should leave." He takes a step towards her, and she puts up her hand, shaking her head. "Don't."

He ignores her. Closing the distance between them in two long strides, he catches her hand in his and pulls her away from the desk, his fingertips trailing across her palm as he tangles his fingers with hers. She inhales sharply, her desperate hope that the sexual frisson between them may have faded dissolving in a flash of white-hot hunger that rips through her entire body. "I put you in a no-win situation, and I will always regret that." She freezes as he lifts her hand to his lips. His breath is soft and warm on her skin, then she feels the touch of his mouth on her knuckles. "But I'll never regret the time I spent with you."

"Don't." She wrenches her hand away from his grasp, the feel of his lips burning on her skin. "Don't you _dare_ give me that hearts and flowers bullshit."

His hands drop to his sides. "You have every right to feel angry," he says calmly.

"I wasn't aware I needed your permission." She takes a half step toward him, feeling as though she's moving in slow motion, as though her dreams have become her waking nightmare. "You have no right to drag me back into your life," she hisses, afraid that if she raises her voice, she will never stop shouting. He says nothing, and his silence incenses her. "Damn you, Michael," she bites out, her hands curled into fists, pressing hard against her thighs. "I wish I'd _never_ met you."

The barb stings him – she sees it in his eyes. His gaze narrows, but then he simply shrugs.

Fury boils up inside her, pushing aside anything but the thought of shattering that infuriatingly implacable expression. "Did you even stop to think of the mess you were leaving behind?" Putting both hands on his chest, she pushes him with considerable force. He lets out a faint _oof_ as his back hits the wall, but she doesn't care. Neither does he, apparently. He simply looks at her sadly, as though he feels he deserves nothing less, and it only serves to infuriate her further. "God damn you, Michael," she says again, her voice thick with tears. "You got what you wanted and that's all that matters, right?"

He doesn't answer. He merely watches her, his thoughts hidden behind eyes that see too much and give away so little, and the urge to shatter his aura of perfectly controlled detachment bursts through her head like a blinding flash of light. Taking his face in her hands, she kisses him, hard.

His hands come up to grip her elbows as he takes a step backwards, his back thumping against the wall once more. For a few endless seconds he seems shocked into immobility, then his mouth opens under hers. Her fingers digging into his scalp, she kisses him with a furious hunger, tasting coffee and mint on his tongue, her skin rippling with sensation as the familiar scent of his skin washes over her.

His hands are suddenly on her hips, pulling her closer. She knows he wants her as much as she wants him – he's hard and urgent, pressing against her - and lust begins to soak into her anger, her blood burning with the taste and feel of him. Rising up on her toes, she kisses him again - just as she has in her dreams for so long, angry and desperate - curling her tongue around his, letting her teeth scrape against his bottom lip. He groans, a harsh sound of surrender that makes her skin prickle, then his mouth covers hers in a fierce kiss that sends a ripple of heat from her breasts to her belly. Arching her back, she presses him against the wall with the full weight of her body, her hands slipping under his sweatshirt, hazily aware of his muscles flinching under her touch.

She drops her hands to the top button of his jeans, then cups her palm over the hard heat between his legs. "Jesus," he breathes roughly against her mouth as she curls her fingers around him, making him arch into her touch, then he reaches down, his long fingers encircling her wrist. "Sara, wait."

She shakes her head, fuelled by rage and desire and the desperate need to feel something, anything but this dull, pounding _nothingness_ that is slowly eating away at her. "No." Her breasts are aching, pushing against his chest. She wants to put her hands around his beautiful neck and press her fingers down hard against his skin until his breath comes short. She wants him to feel just a little of the darkness that claws at her every time she thinks of him. "Come on, Michael." Her voice sounds like a stranger's. "Are you telling me you've never once thought about it?"

"Every day since we first met," is his blunt answer, and it gives her great satisfaction to hear the strangled note in his voice. "But I didn't come here for this."

Somewhere inside her, a voice of reason is struggling to make itself heard, but it's too late. The floodgates have been opened and she is flying high on resentment and hurt and she doesn't know how to stop. She puts her lips to his ear, letting her teeth scrape against his earlobe as she speaks. "The hell you didn't."

He shudders, then catches both her hands in his. "Not like this."

"Then what would you suggest? Dinner and a show? Champagne and caviar?" She shakes her head. "Because that's never what this has been about, has it?"

"It was never about this." He presses his forehead against hers, and she is flung back into the moment when she'd last kissed him, a soft, gentle kiss that almost breaks her to remember. "This isn't what _you_ want, Sara, either. Not like this."

"How the hell would you know?" She leans back and tries to jerk away from his touch but his hands tighten around her wrists.

"Because, whether you want to admit it or not, I know you." His expressions softens, his gaze roaming her face as though he is trying to learn it by heart. "Just like you know me."

She stares at him for a long moment, her heart hammering violently, then something inside her collapses, fury-forged stone crumbling into dust. A choked sob catches in her throat, then he's pulling her into his arms, holding her so tightly that she can hardly breathe. "I'm so sorry," he whispers against her temple, his lips barely gazing her overheated skin. His heart is pounding against hers, his breathing ragged - if she wasn't so consumed with the knowledge that she'd just made a fool out of herself, she might have found his condition flattering.

She doesn't know how long he holds her, but it's long enough for it to become awkward for both of them. Her whole body is practically humming with sensation, but mortification is slowly winning out, her face flushed with as much embarrassment as it is with desire. She pulls away first, looking everywhere but directly at him.

Putting his hands on her shoulders, he gently eases her away from him, then tugs at the bottom of her t-shirt, smoothing it down over her bared stomach. "If you only believe one thing I say, believe me when I say that I never meant to involve you." He ducks his head slightly, trying to catch her eyes with his.

"Considering the infirmary was an integral part of your plan," she says shakily, her skin now prickling with shame rather than desire, "you'll excuse me if I don't quite believe you."

He makes a _tch_ sound of pure frustration, his hands dropping from her hips. He's still breathing heavily, his eyes dark with the same raw hunger that is still clawing at her gut, his mouth as kiss-swollen as hers feels. "It was the drain in the corner of your office that I needed, not you."

She stares at him, feeling somewhat like a small animal trapped in headlights. "What?"

A half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth – _laughing at her, not with her_, she thinks darkly – then he takes her carefully by the arm. "Could we sit, do you think?" He pushes himself away from the wall, and for the first time she notices that he's not quite steady on his feet.

"Are you hurt?" The words are out of her mouth before she realises, and she wishes – not for the first time – that the urge to heal and soothe wasn't quite so ingrained.

He shrugs as he attempts to steer her across the room. "It's nothing."

She looks down. It takes her two seconds to work out that he's favouring his right leg. "I doubt that," she snipes back, thankful for the chance to pull on her professional mask.

"I'm just a little worn out, that's all." She gives him a pointed look, slipping further into the echoes of their past relationship. He sighs, but a faint glimmer of amusement dances in his eyes. "And I may have twisted my knee a few days ago."

She nods hesitantly towards the knee in question. "Did you want me to -"

"No."

She's glad of his swift refusal. After what's just happened, she's in no fit state to examine him as a medical professional. She lets him guide her into the middle of the room where they share an oddly familiar moment of indecision. Finally, suppressing the absurd urge to laugh, Sara finally gestures towards the bed. "Please."

He drops onto the bed with what looks like relief, his elbows resting on his thighs, his hands loosely linked between his knees. "Just like old times."

Such lightweight conversation should be jarring after her emotional brain-snap, but she's grateful for the respite. "Slightly more comfortable than a psych unit bunk," she points out lightly as she sits down beside him, careful to leave a reassuring gap between them.

"It couldn't be any worse, trust me."

She tries to smile but her lips, still tingling after that bruising kiss, don't seem willing to cooperate. "You came here to talk, Michael, so talk."

He takes a moment to answer, looking at her with different eyes, wanting and _knowing_, his gaze lingering a little too long on her lips. "It was a mistake to come here."

Her mouth is dry. "I agree, but it would hardly be the first one you've made, would it?" He slants her a dark look. She ignores it. "But you _are_ here, so talk to me."

He exhales a long, slow breath. "For your own sake, it's better if you don't know any more than you already do."

"You told me once that there were answers to the questions I had about you." She puts her hand on his arm, the gesture at once strange and familiar. "If you want me to trust you, Michael, you have to return the favour." Their eyes lock. "Tell me enough to make me understand."

He hesitates. "It's a long story."

She pulls her hand away and shifts restlessly on the bed, entirely too aware of the warmth of his thigh not an inch from hers. "Then talk fast."

"Where you like me to start?"

Sara takes a deep breath. _When in doubt, start at the beginning._ "Why did you rob that bank? Actually," she amends hastily, "I think why did you do such a _bad job_ of robbing that bank would be a better question."

"Well, studies have shown that it's much harder to break someone out of prison when you're on the outside." He answers so casually that it takes a few seconds for his words to sink in. When they do, just like that, the pieces of the puzzle that is Michael Scofield click into place.

Perhaps later, when her thoughts aren't being pulled in ten different directions, she will appreciate the fact that she'd been right about him from the start. She hears her own voice, trying to explain her misgivings to Katie. _I don't get it. Guys like him drink twelve year old scotch whiskey, they pay $200 for Cubs' tickets. They don't rob banks. _

The enormity of his sacrifice is almost incomprehensible, and she's not sure whether she wants to laugh or cry. "My God," she whispers finally, scarcely able to believe what she already knows to be true. "You orchestrated the whole thing."

"Lincoln is innocent. I did what had to be done." He shrugs carelessly, but now she knows the darkness in his eyes for what it really is.

She reaches out her hand, touching him lightly on the arm. "Tell me more." He looks at her, his eyes glittering, and she curls her hand around his wrist. "Please."

He does.

With increasing incredulity, Sara listens as the story of months of meticulous planning unfolds. How he removed the blueprints from his firm's archives. How he spent weeks memorizing dates and times and chemical formulas. How he painstakingly researched the people whose help he would need to save Lincoln's life, gambling and bargaining with his own life so that his plan could come to fruition.

She knows he's only telling her a fraction of his secrets, but for now, it's enough. "How on earth did you remember all this?" She knows he's an intelligent man, but this was pushing the boundaries a little too far.

He pulls up his left sleeve of his sweatshirt, and they both gaze down at the tattoos swirling over his skin. "It's all here."

They sit in silence as she traces the patterns with trembling fingertips, remembering as she does the complex designs that cover his chest and back. _Genius indeed._ She's speechless and more than a little uneasy. It's said that there's a fine line between genius and insanity, and she wonders briefly just how much pretence was needed on his part the night she found him curled into a bloodied ball in the SHU.

She touches the smooth skin just below the curve of his elbow, rubbing her thumb over the spot she's marked so many times with her needles. How could she have seen these pictures every day for weeks and not noticed anything special about them? "Am I on here?" she asks eventually, unsure as to what she'd like to hear as an answer.

"No." He lifts his other hand to his face, taps his temple with two fingers. "You were in here."

Flattery isn't supposed to get you everywhere, but the writer of that particular cliché hadn't met Michael Schofield. "Why?"

"Let's just say it was easy to remember things about you." She flushes, and he gives her a faintly sheepish smile. "There's something else I need to tell you. Something that you're not going to want to hear."

"After this," she touches his wrist where the line of blue ink blends into his tanned skin, "nothing could surprise me."

"We'll see." He clears his throat. "You were being concerned about my being misdiagnosed as a diabetic?"

"I remember." She doesn't bother mentioning that she remembers every word they've ever exchanged.

"You were right."

She pulls her hand away, stung anew by just how completely he'd fooled her. Just when she thought she had a handle on the lengths to which he'd been prepared to go, she realised she had no idea at all. "Quite a trick," she says flatly. For a moment she wavers between nursing her wounded pride or satisfying her curiosity, then curiosity wins out. "How did you do it?"

"Pugnac."

Her eyes widen. "Very clever."

"I'm going to assume that's not a compliment."

"No, I mean it. You had me totally convinced." _In more ways than one_, she thinks darkly. "Any side effects?"

"A few." He shrugs. "But I'm fine."

There would have been more than a few, and she wouldn't be at all surprised if he hadn't done himself permanent damage. "Michael, you need a thorough physical."

"Are you offering?" She gives him a baleful look, but he seems cheerfully unabashed. "I've seen a doctor. I'm okay."

She frowns, not wanting to think of what kind of physician a wanted fugitive might be forced to visit. "A real doctor?"

He smirks. "He had a white coat and everything."

She feels an answering smile touch her lips. "That's always reassuring." Her smile fades. "There's something else I'd like to ask."

"Go ahead."

"Charles Westmoreland?"

His whole body seems to stiffen. "What about him?"

"He died from a stab wound to the abdomen, but the autopsy results showed that he'd received the injury hours before the time of your break out."

He closes his eyes. "I suspect it happened during the scuffle that ended with a particular CO being trussed up beneath the guards' room." Opening his eyes, he looks at her, his expression more than a little sorrowful. "Charles didn't tell anyone how badly he was hurt," he says softly, "and by the time we reached the infirmary it was too late." The smooth skin of his throat works as he swallows hard, not meeting her eyes. "I should have known he was hurt. I could have done something -"

"You said it yourself. He knew what he was getting into." As she says the words, the dull ache in her chest eases just a little. "Bellick blamed you, you know. Said he'd seen you stab the old man yourself."

Michael's gaze hardens. "And you believed him?"

She doesn't hesitate. "No."

He lifts his hand as if to touch her, then lets it drop. "Anything else?" His voice is soft and smoky, so laden with words unspoken that a shiver dances down her spine.

"My keys," she murmurs, slowly twisting her hands together. "You had Nika steal them from me, didn't you?" She would like very much to ask several other questions about Nika – _it's just business_ – but she won't. Not now.

"Yes." He does touch her then, a fleeting brush of his fingers on the back of her hand. "I didn't want to go down that path. But things changed, and the plan had to change with them."

"Why didn't you just take them yourself during your visit?" She feels a heated blush creeping up her throat, but she forces herself to go on. "You certainly managed to distract me enough to do it."

"Because you weren't the only one who got distracted." He looks away, then turns to her, his eyes gleaming. "I planned to take them. I _needed_ to take them. And then I kissed you."

She stares at him, her breath caught somewhere in the middle of her chest. "And then?"

"And then I couldn't do it."

"Why not?"

His gaze sharpens with unmistakable hunger. "Because in that moment in that room, all I needed was to keep kissing you."

She swallows hard, trying to dislodge the sudden lump in her throat. Needing a reprieve from his eyes, she looks down to see she's twisting her hands together so hard that the skin over her knuckles is white. It's disheartening to know that he brings out every single one of her nervous tics, but twisting her hands together is better than the alternative of reaching out to him. She wants so much for him to touch her and she knows she can't let it happen because she _cannot think_ when he touches her and she needs to know one more thing, needs to know that it really hadn't all been a lie.

_It won't always be like this, in this room, in this place._

"What you said to me -" she whispers, not looking at him.

"I meant it."

She stares at her hands for a long time, then his voice disturbs the heavy silence. "I should go."

She should be relieved. She's not. "Yes."

Another moment passes, then his hand touches hers, untangling her twisted fingers gently, his thumb stroking the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. "Tell me to go."

She curls her hand to press her palm against his - threads her fingers through his, presses her knee against his – and feels as though she's watching herself from a great distance. "No."

Out of the corner of her eye she sees his body twist gracefully, then his other hand is curling around the nape of her neck, tilting back her head. His eyes are glowing with hunger and something else she doesn't dare begin to name. She sees this much, then her eyes close and he's kissing her, his lips soft and hard and exactly what she wants and she's falling, falling so fast that the air around them begins to spin and blur. A shiver of desire washes over her, smothering her anger like a blanket. She doesn't want to think - _she's so tired of thinking_ \- she needs to feel, she needs to feel _him_, but she's still so afraid. Then his hands are smoothing over the curve of her hips, skimming up her arms, threading through her hair and he's kissing her as though he plans to never stop kissing her and she can almost believe there's still a chance he might be able to save them both.

 

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

_then I did the simplest thing in the world.  
I leaned down and kissed him.  
and the world cracked open._

~ Agnes de Mille

 

~*~

 

She stares at her hands for a long time, then his voice disturbs the heavy silence. "I should go."

She should be relieved. She's not. "Yes."

Another moment passes, then his hand touches hers, untangling her twisted fingers gently, his thumb stroking the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. "Tell me to go."

She curls her hand to press her palm against his - threads her fingers through his, presses her knee against his – and feels as though she's watching herself from a great distance. "No."

Out of the corner of her eye she sees his body twist gracefully, then his other hand is curling around the nape of her neck, tilting back her head. His eyes are glowing with hunger and something else she doesn't dare begin to name. She sees this much, then her eyes close and he's kissing her, his lips soft and hard and exactly what she wants and she's falling, falling so fast that the air around them begins to spin and blur. A shiver of desire washes over her, smothering her anger like a blanket. She doesn't want to think - _she's so tired of thinking_ \- she needs to feel, she needs to feel him, but she's still so afraid. Then his hands are smoothing over the curve of her hips, skimming up her arms, threading through her hair and he's kissing her as though he plans to never stop kissing her and she can almost believe there's still a chance he might be able to save them both.

He gently pulls away, his hands still buried in her hair, his gaze burning a trail from her lips to her eyes. "If you don't want this -"

Sara puts her hands on his chest, her fingers splayed wide over the pounding of his heart. There will be a price to be paid for whatever path she chooses, but for the first time – here in this room, in this place – there is nothing and no one else. There is only _them_, and the thought is as intoxicating as it is terrifying. The taste, the feel, of this man is in her blood now, etched into her bones. She is afraid, but she wants – needs - this just as much as he does. She is not going to run away from the truth of what is between them. "I do."

He smiles, then rises to his feet and holds out his hand to her. She takes it without hesitation, his palm a perfect fit against hers. He pulls her upwards until she's on her feet and then he's kissing her, a delicate exploration of her mouth that quickly becomes something more, something lush and heavy that makes her knees feel like water. One of his hands tangles in her hair, the other sliding around to the small of her back, urging her closer. He shifts his stance until her hips are cradled against his, the heavy ridge of his erection pressing hard against the hot ache between her legs. A sigh whispers from her lips to his, and the blood begins to sing in her veins. She opens her mouth to his fierce kiss, the warmth of his mouth tasting better than she imagined anything could taste, her fingers digging into his shoulders as much to stay on her feet as to touch him.

Finally he lifts his head, staring at her with an almost dazed expression, then he smiles. "I like the t-shirt," he says, trailing one finger along the neckline.

It takes her a moment to remember she's wearing her tourist purchase. "Thanks."

He kisses her again, his fingers tracing a line from her collarbone down to the curve of her breast. She breathes in, then out, then in again. Basic everyday functions suddenly seem difficult to remember. His touch is very light, so light that it's maddening. His fingertips trail downwards, sweeping underneath the curve of her breast until his hand comes to rest lightly on her ribcage. As though he's waiting for permission. As though there could be a doubt left in his head as to whether she wants him to touch her.

Slipping her hand around the back of his neck, she draws his face down to hers, kissing him with a hunger that shocks her, drinking in the dark sweetness of his mouth. A soft groan rumbles deep in his chest, then she feels the brush of his fingertips on the bare skin of her belly, just beneath the hem of her t-shirt. His teeth scrape lightly against her tongue, then his warm hands are beneath her shirt, sliding up her stomach to cup her breasts.

_Oh._

A soft sound of pleasure snags in the back of her throat as she arches her back, leaning into his touch. Her nipples draw up tightly beneath the achingly soft brush of his palms, the heat of his hands warming her skin through her bra. He pulls back in the same instant she realises she's trembling as if with cold, his face alive in a way she's never seen before. "Do you have – are you -?"

"I'm good if you are," she says shakily, trying to remember that she's used to plain-speaking about such things. The logistics of sexual health have never seemed quite so awkward.

He smiles down at her, standing in the circle of his arms. His hands are still beneath her shirt, but now his clever fingers are tracing the line of her spine. "I'm good."

"Thank God for that," she murmurs, making him smile again, then she slips her hands up under his sweatshirt. His skin is warm and smooth, and the reality of his flesh beneath her hands hums beneath her own skin. When she lightly scrapes her nails down his back, the sound of his sharp intake breath seems to meld with the distant sound of the ocean. He draws away from her slightly, then pulls off his shirt in that curious way men do, over his head in one swift movement. Tossing the shirt onto the bed, he stands and simply looks at her as if inviting her to pass judgment.

There's a tight, twisting feeling deep in her chest. She's seen him half-naked before – after all, she'd been his doctor for weeks – but she realises now that she's never truly seen him, not like this. She reaches out her hand and presses it flat in the middle of his chest, her fingers obscuring the devil's horns etched on his skin. It's hard to believe that a canvass so marked by ink could feel so soft. He watched her through hooded eyes as she traces the lines drawn on his skin, exploring angels and demons and shadowed cloisters. She brushes his nipple with a fingernail and his breath catches in his throat, the sound making her stomach clench. Leaning forward, she presses a kiss to his bare shoulder. His skin tastes of salt and soap and she wants nothing more than to peel away every scrap of her clothing and feel his solid warmth against every inch of her.

She barely has time to finish the thought before her shirt is being pulled upwards, then gently over her head. Maximum effect with minimum effort, and she suspects that he unwraps his birthday presents in the same meticulous fashion. He smoothes her hair back from her forehead, her shirt falling unheeded from his hand to the floor as he studies her, the blatant appreciation gleaming in his eyes both a balm to her confidence and a reminder that Michael Scofield is a very dangerous man.

Perhaps he sees a sudden uncertainty in her face, perhaps he simply feels the same impatience that is making her skin prickle. Whatever the reason, he gives her a gentle smile, then takes her hand in his. "Come here."

He sits on the edge of the bed, pulls her to stand between his legs, dancing feather-light kisses across her stomach as he loosens the drawstring of her sweatpants. She closes her eyes as tendrils of warmth spread through the pit of her stomach, dancing around the butterflies that have suddenly sprung into life. She has a moment of fundamental female panic when he begins to ease them down over the curve of her hips - she can barely remember what she did today before he appeared in her room, let alone what underwear she'd chosen this morning – but they appear to be cream-coloured lace. Judging by the look on Michael's face, they more than meet with his approval.

His hands are a textbook example of dexterity, and she's beginning to understand how he could have secretly left a paper rose on her desk when she would have sworn he'd never left her sight. It seems that she only has time to blink before her sweatpants are pooling around her feet and those clever hands are sliding up her calves, the backs of her thighs. "Your legs."

An undignified sound of almost-ticklish pleasure bubbles up in her throat as his fingers tease the back of her knees. "What about them?"

He presses a lingering kiss to her bare hip, goosebumps rippling across her skin at the scrape of his whiskered chin. "They're amazing."

Her face grows warm. "They're just legs, Michael."

"Not when I've only ever seen them in my head," he smiles – a hot, lazy smile that has her fighting the urge to squirm in his embrace - then kisses the soft skin just below her navel. "Obviously my imagination was sorely lacking."

Her soft laughter becomes a breathless gasp as he dips his head lower, his mouth lingering on the soft skin of her inner thigh. She clutches at his shoulders, her eyes closing once more, this time in faint disbelief. She cannot possibly be here with him like this, feeling as though she is melting from the inside out. And yet she is.

He cups her bottom in his hands, pulls her closer, then he brushes his lips over the cream lace between her thighs in a slow, deliberate caress that steals the breath from her lungs. The gentle touch of his lips grows firmer, more insistent, the heat of his mouth burning her through the damp silk. Her skin flushes, her pulse beginning to beat faster and faster – in her throat, her breasts, deep inside the hollow of her womb - the slow throb of arousal swiftly blossoming into a liquid heat that slides through her belly.

She smoothes her hands across his shoulders, then strokes his closely cropped head with trembling fingers, trying to remember how to breathe. His hair is still short but longer, she thinks hazily. Long enough to feel the brush of it against her fingers, it looks very dark against the paleness of her skin. She's seen his hair like this once before, but that's not a time she wants to remember. She silently hopes it's not a bad portent, then his hands are splayed on her back, drawing her down as he lifts his head to kiss her breasts, his teeth gently biting her nipple through the thin cotton of her bra, and she no longer wants to think about anything.

She finds the presence of mind to step out of her sweatpants, leaning on him for support as she kicks away her slip-on shoes. Kissing the hollow between her breasts, he slides her bra straps down her shoulders then the bra is somehow on the floor and they're falling backwards onto the bed.

A soft sound sings in her throat at the feel of his bare chest and stomach against hers as he gathers her in his arms and kisses her until she's breathless and the sound of the ocean no longer masks the sound of his unsteady breathing. Her breasts feel swollen, her nipples tightening almost painfully every time they brush his chest. He slides one demin-clad thigh between hers, and the feel of him pressed against her is at once too much and not nearly enough.

"Michael," she murmurs shakily, hooking her fingers into the waistband of his jeans. Catching his eyes with hers, she lets the heel of her palm brush the solid shape of him, then begins to fumble with the metal buttons. "These need to go."

He looks at her, his eyes dark with hunger, his whispered reply skimming across her skin like a down feather. "I agree." He's not wearing a belt, which makes things much easier. He inhales sharply as she wins her battle with the buttons and slides her hand inside his dark grey boxers. He exhales with a hiss when she touches him, brushing her fingertips lightly against the dark wiry hair and hard flesh between his legs.

He arches into her touch, his eyes closing. "Sara?" The word is little more than a strangled whisper.

"Hmmm?" Kissing the tight muscle at the top of his arm, she curls her hand around him, reveling in the feel of him – all smooth skin and rigid heat – pressing into her palm. _So beautiful_, she thinks. She's spent too long looking at men's bodies with the detached eyes of a doctor. To be able to lay her hands on him and luxuriate in the most primal of details – the smell of his desire, the texture of his skin – is something she'd never thought she'd need this much.

He opens his eyes to give her a look of such desperate supplication that her heart clenches. "Doctors aren't supposed to try to kill their patients."

Her whole body is trembling, but she manages a smile. "You're not my patient any more."

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, "Thank God for that," then they're both pulling off his jeans and his sneakers – she finds herself trying to catch a glimpse of his toes - in a flurry of hands and he's pushing her gently back onto the bed. She barely has time to catch her breath before he's slipping her underpants down and off and then there's nothing between the heat of his flesh and hers and he's pulling her up against him in a long, slow slide of bare skin that makes her whole body clench with a shock of anticipation.

His face wears the same look of shock. "Oh, _Sara_." Touching her with hands that aren't quite steady, he kisses her slowly and deeply, his lips shaping themselves to the curve of hers, his tongue tasting her mouth with a controlled hunger that curls her toes. His hand slides down her belly, then lower to cup the damp curls between her legs, one long finger teasing and stroking. A soft moan rises up in her throat as her spine arches, her hands tightening on his upper arms. This, this is too much. She wraps one leg around his, lifting her hips, wanting the silken heat of his erection against her, right _there_, where everything is soft and aching.

Pressing one last kiss to her swollen mouth, he gives her a lopsided smile that is both an apology and a promise, then bows his head to her breasts, giving them such thorough attention that she is soon twisting restlessly beneath him. "Michael, please -"

He kisses her throat, the rasp of his stubble making her shiver. "I've thought about this for too long," he whispers against her skin. "I can't just -"

"Yes, you can." She rolls onto her back, pulling him with her until the weight of his body presses her into the bed. Taking his face in her hands, she kisses him just as he'd kissed her, slow and deep and filled with far too much need, cradling his slim hips between her thighs in an unspoken and unmistakable invitation. "Don't go slow. Not this time."

He looks at her as though she's just given him the world, then he starts to move against her, a steady, delicious friction that swiftly becomes slick and heavy. The air in her lungs feels hot and thick, her skin stretched thin and tight, and she wants him so much she can scarcely breathe. He kisses her softly, then watches her with glowing eyes as he sinks into her, an agonizingly tender rush of flesh and heat. Her body almost flinches at the feel of him inside her, an answering ripple quivering through the muscles of his back where her fingers are clutching at demons and angels and shadows.

She wants to say a dozen different things, but all that comes out of her mouth is a soft, strangled, "Oh."

He presses his head against her shoulder, tastes the curve of her neck. "Yeah."

He begins to move above her – against her, inside her – with unhurried, graceful rolls of his hips, totally at odds with the tension in his arms and the ragged sound of his breath. He's hot and hard and everything feels so good that she knows that this isn't going to last long for either of them. She arches her back, catching his rhythm with her own, stabbing her teeth into her bottom lip as he presses himself deeper inside her. She lifts her hips to his and he makes an incoherent sound at the back of his throat, closing his eyes as a tiny frown creases his forehead.

"Are you thinking of chemical formulas?" she teases softly, and she's amazed at how natural it feels. Amazed that she can speak when it feels as though her very bones are about to shatter.

"Yes." The word comes out as a hiss. "And every single football statistic I can remember," he adds in a broken mutter, his hand sliding up her thigh, under her bottom, lifting her up to him again. And again. "God, you're beautiful." He kisses her again with a fierceness that borders on desperation, and she wonders if he's wanted this as long as she has.

He grips her thigh, his fingers pressing hard against her skin – she will find tiny bruises there the next day – and pulls it higher on his hip, opening her up to him. The slick drag of his body deep inside hers pulls at her blood, sparking every nerve-ending until she feels as though she is aglow with molten heat. She's flying high on want and need and the siren's song of heavy, aching flesh, utterly addicted to a man she is afraid she will never see again.

She kisses him, running her tongue along his perfect teeth, committing the taste of him to memory. He groans, a rough sound of pleasure, then his hands are gripping her tightly, lifting her up to him, burying himself inside her again and again until everything begins to tighten, drawing up like a bow begging to be released. Sensation streaks up the backs of her legs, rippling through her belly, then her flesh and blood come apart at the seams.

He kisses her, swallowing the sound of her pleasure, taking it back into himself only to give it back to her again and again, his body pinning her in place while hers shivers around him.

She lets out a shaky breath as the last aftershocks tremble and fade, feeling boneless and drained. Still buried deep inside her, he's breathing hard, his arms braced on either side of her head, his whole body rigid with tension. His eyes are closed, his forehead damp with sweat and creased in a frown, and she suddenly feels as though he is a thousand miles away from her. She lifts her head to give him a lingering kiss, stroking his face with her fingertips, smoothing the lines from his forehead, not letting him look away from her as she wraps her legs around him a little tighter. "Just let go, Michael."

She feels something go out of him, as though her words have released him from some self-imposed decree, then he presses himself deep inside her, whispering her name as he begins to shudder in her arms. She holds him close, her own breath still coming short, the soft pulsing of his flesh inside her echoing the thrum of his heartbeat against her breast. She presses a kiss to his damp temple as he buries his head in the crook of her neck, his breath feathering across her overheated skin, and she knows that she will never regret him.

 

~*~

 

They don't sleep.

There's no time, of course, but that's not the only reason. Lying in the darkened room, the only light coming from the small bathroom, the temptation to explore each other's skin and heart seems to be proving too seductive to resist. Tangled in cool white sheets, they begin a hesitant dance of discovery, every glance and touch and word infused with a simmering awareness of what has just passed between them. _Such a normal thing to do_, she thinks, then reproaches herself for doing so. There can be no normal for them. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

"How long did it take you to design these?" Gazing at the warring deities etched on his chest, she runs her hands over his flat stomach, exploring the sculptured contours of his hips and thighs. He is the most beautiful man she's ever seen, so beautiful that it almost hurts to look at him. He has a swimmer's body, she realises, his muscles long and wiry, broad shoulders and slim hips. He also looks achingly young, and she wonders how he survived even a week inside Fox River. She pushes the thought aside. She doesn't want to think of Fox River. Not now.

"A while." He's stroking her stomach now, skimming his palm over the jut of her hipbone. "You've lost weight."

"Haven't had much appetite lately." She gives him a wry smile. "Speaking of which, there's some food in the mini bar fridge. Did you want something to eat?"

He brushes aside her tangled hair to bestow a lingering kiss on her shoulder. "Maybe in a little while."

Goosebumps rise up on the nape of her neck. The skin all over her body is still tingling; she suspects she will feel the whisker burn on her breasts for a few days to come. "How about a beer?"

He shoots her a grin that is pure college boy. "Definitely."

Shaking her head, she waves her hand towards the mini bar. "Help yourself," she says airily. She looks away as he pulls on his boxer shorts, feeling strangely shy – why, she has no idea, given the things they've just done to each other – but her eyes follow him as he strolls across the room, her gaze lingering on his right shoulder blade. The burn he sustained at Fox River – and she realises now that she still doesn't know how it happened, and perhaps she never will – is still visible but appears to be healing well, as least from what she can see. _Perhaps the other doctor he saw tended to it_, she thinks, and is suddenly stung by a feeling of possessiveness she knows she has no right to feel.

He crouches in front of the small refrigerator, his eyes widening at the crowded conditions – too late she remembers how carelessly she'd shoved her dinner leftovers inside – then comes up with a bottle of imported Mexican beer. He smiles at her over his shoulder. "I bet these aren't twenty-five cents."

She grins, both at the memory he's deliberately invoked and the thought that you could buy _anything_ from a hotel mini bar for twenty-five cents. "Try six bucks."

"I'll make sure I appreciate it." He twists off the cap as he walks across the room, dangling the bottle from his fingertips as he lifts a questioning eyebrow. "You're not having one?"

"I don't drink."

He looks at the empty wineglass sitting on the shelf above the bar fridge, then down at her. "Okay."

She feels her face grow warm, a dull flush of heat that creeps up her neck. She's always been a lousy poker player. She says nothing as he slides back into bed beside her, and he gives her a quizzical look. "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, wishing – not for the first time – that he wasn't quite so intuitive. "Nothing."

"Come on." He nudges her bare foot with his. "You owe me at least one secret."

She tugs the sheet a little higher, sucking in a sharp breath as the sheets brush against whisker-scraped nipples. "May I ask you something first?"

He cradles the beer bottle loosely in his linked hands. "Shoot."

"How did you know I'd leave the door unlocked that night?"

"I didn't."

She blinks. "Did you have a back up plan if it had been locked?"

He hesitates long enough to make her suspect she already knows the answer, then he shrugs. "I would have thought of something."

"That was quite a risk you took."

A smile tugs briefly at the corner of his mouth. "I know."

She's not sure if she should be flattered or insulted. That he'd had put so much faith in her making the 'right' decision was unsettling. Had he trusted in his belief in her, or in his own ability to charm her into doing his bidding?

"Why did you do it?" he asks softly, obviously decided to take the same blunt line of questioning she'd used.

_Because I couldn't bear to see you lose someone you loved so much. Because I couldn't bear to be the one to take your brother away from you._ She presses her tongue hard against the back of her teeth, knowing that there are some truths that she cannot tell him. "I went to see my father that afternoon. He was celebrating his latest political coup." She tries and fails to keep the bitterness from her voice. "I asked him if he'd even bothered to look at Lincoln's file." She looks at him. "He hadn't."

Michael's expression instantly becomes smooth and unreadable, and she almost falters. "I'd been telling myself that everything you'd said about a conspiracy couldn't possibly be true," she says slowly, "but in that instant, I realised that it could."

His eyebrows lift. "So you did it to annoy your father?" He manages to sound both amused and disappointed. She suspects he's deliberately trying to lighten the mood and she wants very much to kiss him but she merely smiles and shakes her head.

"Lincoln was my patient, Michael. Not only did I have a duty of care towards him, I liked him." She reaches up touch the side of his face gently. "And the longer you were at Fox River, the easier it was to see him through your eyes. To believe he was the good man you said he was." He turns his head to kiss her palm, the touch of his lips warming her skin. "But to betray everything I'd sworn to uphold was unthinkable."

His eyes look very dark in the half-light. "And yet you did."

She swallows hard. "Yes."

He says nothing for a moment. She can almost hear his thoughts ticking over. "You said I had no idea what you went through after the escape," he finally says, his voice flat. "What did you mean?"

She hesitates. How can she explain to him what she still doesn't understand herself? He's one of the strongest people she's ever met – how could he possibly comprehend what it was like to feel out of control of your own body and mind, as though someone else is pulling the strings.

He watches her, his eyes half-hidden in the shadowy darkness, then his hand finds hers in the tangled sheet. He squeezes it gently, the warmth of his touch traveling up to her heart. _If you want me to trust you, you've got to return the favour. Tell me enough to make me understand._ She looks at him for a long moment as her own words echo in her mind, then she takes a deep breath and starts to speak.

"You know about my time in India?"

"Yes."

"And that I worked at Chicago General?"

"Yes."

"Did you wonder why I had such a long break between Chicago General and Fox River?"

"I did." He doesn't quite meet her eyes, and she knows then that the subject of his research into her is still a sore one for both of them. "It was as though you'd fallen off the grid. I eventually assumed you'd taken a sabbatical."

"I did, in a way." The darkness of the room is making this easier than she feared, but every word still feels as though she has to wrench it from the depths of her chest. "I worked here and there, but nothing permanent and nothing to do with my chosen profession." She thinks briefly of her fleeting careers involving waiting tables and working in a bookstore, then takes another deep breath. "Before that, though, I was in rehab."

His whole body stills. He twists around to put his untouched beer on the small table beside the bed, then turns back to her. "Alcohol?"

"A little bit stronger than that." She looks down at their linked hands; it's easier than looking at him. "I was a rising star at Chicago General until I started giving myself morphine more often I gave it to my patients." His hand tightens almost painfully on hers. She dares a glance at his face, but she sees no pity in his eyes, only a devastated realization. "And you know what they say – once a junkie, always a junkie."

He swears under his breath, then cups her face in his hands, his eyes burning into hers. "Exactly what did helping me cost you, Sara?"

She can't meet his eyes. "It doesn't matter now," she says. Perhaps if she says it enough times, they might both believe it.

His fingertips press a little harder against the nape of her neck, but the thumbs stroking her face are gentle. "Tell me."

She lifts her hands, wrapping her fingers around his wrists. His pulse beats fast and strong beneath her fingertips; she doesn't want to guess at her own heart rate. "Everything I believed in was falling apart and I couldn't stop it." Gently pulling his hands down, she cradles them in her lap, entwining her fingers through his. Touching him seems to make it easier to say the words she never thought she'd say, at least not to him. "I had done what I thought was right – I saved an innocent man from being killed - but that didn't change the fact that I'd knowingly committed a felony." She looks at him sadly. "It didn't change the fact that I did it as much for you as I did it for Lincoln."

He starts to speak, but she shakes her head, silently pleading for him to let her finish. She doubts she'll have the courage to have this conversation a second time. "I left the door unlocked and went home with a bottle of morphine in my bag." He inhales sharply, and she lets go of his hands, suddenly needs a little space. "The first thing I did when I got there was to pour myself a double scotch." She leans back on the pillows piled behind them and stares at the ceiling, her voice sounding as though it was coming from far away. "I sat on the couch and I sipped my first alcoholic drink in almost three years and I stared at that little bottle of morphine for what felt like hours."

The silence in the room grows heavy, expectant, and she knows without seeing his face that he is watching her very carefully. "I rang my father's cell phone. Don't ask me why, I don't know. Perhaps I just needed to give both of us another chance to belittle each other." She tries to smile but fails. "It went straight through to his voicemail. It was only when I heard the sound of his voice that I realised the person I really wanted to talk to was you." Her voice breaks a little, but she keeps going, spurred on by months of grief and resentment. "And you were _gone_."

He flinches as though she's just punched him in the gut. "Sara-"

"Everything just hurt so much." She closes her eyes tightly, shutting out his beautiful, devastated face. "I'd worked so hard to get my life back on track. All my grand plans to make a difference at Fox River, to change people's lives for the better. And I threw it away just like that." She snaps her fingers as she talks. "The double scotch didn't make the pain go away. Neither did the next one or the one after that." Screwing up her last bit of courage, she turns to him, her voice vibrating with the effort of forcing out the words. "And then I stopped just looking at the morphine, because I knew that it could make any amount of pain disappear." He doesn't speak, and she has the feeling that they're both holding their breath. "But I miscalculated."

His tanned face pales. "What do you mean?"

She looks at him, a fading ember of her well-nurtured anger flickering into life. For an escaped prisoner who was also an acknowledged genius, he could be somewhat naive. "I'd been clean for almost three years, Michael, and I'd just downed three double scotches. What do you think I mean?"

He says nothing and she's glad. She can literally feel the tension humming through his body; she's not sure she wants to know exactly what he's thinking. "The police found me when they came to my house with a warrant to enter." She glances at him, but he's staring at nothing, his expression blank and smooth. "I found out later they'd called me in as a possible D.O.A."

When he finally speaks, his voice is flat. "You almost died." It's an accusation, not a question, and she knows that it's not leveled at her.

"A bit closer than almost. If they'd broken down my door fifteen minutes later…" She doesn't bother finishing the sentence. They both know how it would have ended.

He shakes his head, his expression almost bewildered. "I didn't know -"

"How could you have known?" Her voice sounds very loud in the quiet room. "And what would you have done, Michael? Ridden in on your white horse and saved me from myself? Forfeited your brother's life for mine?"

He looks stricken, and she knows she's just hit his Achilles heel. Faced with the spectre of the choice she's quite sure they're both glad he never had to make, she retreats into her story. Somehow that feels safer than trying to negotiate the new emotional minefield she's just unearthed. "I was in hospital for ten days. When I was discharged, my father had me brought to his new office and basically told me that he'd applied the right amount of pressure and had saved my skin and my job and he was packing me off to rehab."

He nods slowly, then frowns. "Why didn't you tell Veronica?"

He sounds faintly injured, and a tiny spark of anger flickers once more. _Because it was none of her business_, she thinks, but she merely says, "It was over and done with. There was no point."

He stares at the ceiling for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is so quiet she has to strain to hear him. "It was my fault."

She swallows hard. A few days ago, hearing him say those words would have given her a great deal of satisfaction. Now, they simply make her want to weep. She rolls over onto her side to face him, her head searching for his amidst the sheets. "You didn't put that needle in my arm."

"I may as well have." He tangles his fingers with hers, but he won't – can't? – look at her. "I should never have put you in that position."

"No, you shouldn't have, but would you have preferred Lincoln to have been executed?"

He puts his other hand over his eyes, and she slides her arm around his neck, breathing in the spicy scent of his skin. "What's done is done, Michael." She kisses his jaw, feeling the scrape of his whiskers against her lips. "Lincoln is alive, and so am I."

He's still rigid in her arms, his voice thick with dismay. "Both of you, my fault."

"What?"

"It was my fault Lincoln was in that parking garage the night he was arrested," he whispers, his voice once again so soft she can hardly hear him.

She frowns, confused. "How could it possibly have been your fault?"

"The only reason he was there was to pay off a debt. A debt he owed solely because of me."

"I don't understand."

"He'd borrowed money after our mother died. Made me believe that it was from her insurance, that we'd both been given a share." His voice shakes. "He lied. It was all for me, so that I could make something of my life. So that I didn't follow him down the path he'd taken." He looks at her, and she's shocked to see his eyes are glittering with tears. "He gave up everything so that I could have something better, and I didn't find out until it was too late."

Her first thought is that she'd been right to save Lincoln Burrows. Her second is that his younger brother is still facing far too many monsters on his own.

"You saved him, Michael." She leans across and kisses him with soft insistence until his lips part beneath hers. "You've saved both of us," she whispers against his mouth, running her fingers through his cropped hair, willing him to believe what she now knows to be true.

"I never wanted to involve you." He lifts his hands to touch her face, his eyes searching hers, and she wishes she knew what he was looking for. "I never, ever imagined -" he breaks off, then exhales shakily. "I tried so hard to keep you safe."

"I know." She does, finally. She can feel the poison inside her breaking free, the numbness around her heart becoming a bittersweet ache, and she knows at last that she can still feel something other than anger. "I believe you, Michael."

He kisses her then, his mouth clinging to hers with gentle desperation. His hands slide beneath the sheet, stroking her breasts, the damp warmth between her thighs, his palms smoothing over the curve of her bottom. "Thank you," he whispers unevenly, and those two small words almost break her heart.

Her eyes hot with the tears she's determined not to shed, she crawls on top of him, kissing his mouth, his throat, his chest, the taste of him burning on her tongue. Her hands – his hands too, she thinks – are tugging at the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down his legs, then the thick length of him is hot against her, rubbing, teasing. She gives him a shaky smile as she leans over him, letting her breasts and her unbound hair brush his chest. His answering smile is both hopeful and hesitant and touches every secret place in her heart and mind. Lowering her mouth to his, she shifts her hips and takes him deep inside her, his groan of pleasure washing across her skin like a warm breeze.

It's slower this time, slower and sweeter and tinged with sadness. She wants so much for it to never end – the feel of him buried inside her, the sound of her name on his lips as he mutters against her skin, the heat of his mouth on her breasts – but it's over too soon, her body going up in flames, her soft cry mingling with his as he arches beneath her, his fingers digging painfully into her hips as he loses himself.

When it's over, she wraps her arms around him, holding him tightly as he buries her face in the damp crook of her neck. _I love you_, she tells him silently, and wonders if she will ever have the courage to say the words out loud.

 

~*~

 

When she opens her eyes again, she's alone in the bed. Michael is dressed and standing by the open door to the balcony, the shape of him barely outlined in the predawn light. Although she doesn't make a sound, he turns to look at her. "I have to go."

His voice is dark and heavy, and although she cannot see his eyes, she suspects his thoughts are the same. "I know," she whispers, her mouth feeling dry and sour. She grabs her clothes from the floor beside the bed – not letting herself think about how they had ended up there – and quickly slips from the warm sheets that still smell of him. As much as she craves to wrap him in her arms and hold him safe, she doesn't go to him. Instead, she gives him a small smile and heads for the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with something that might be relief but feels more like despair. She takes a deep breath and attempts to smooth her bristling nerves with the mindless tasks of using the toilet and washing her hands and hastily cleaning her teeth and pulling on her clothes.

It doesn't work. Neither does splashing her face with several handfuls of cold water, or staring at her pale reflection in the mirror. The hazel eyes that stare back at her offer no answers, no reassuring platitudes. Repressing the urge to pull a face at her silent doppelganger, she dries her face, runs her hands through her hair, then wrenches open the door.

She stands in the bathroom doorway for a moment and gazes across the room, giving herself a moment to simply look at him. There's no way of knowing when - or if - she will see him again. The thought makes her feel faintly sick. She gives herself a mental shake, then walks silently across the room, touching his shoulder lightly when she reaches his side. "What happens now?

He doesn't turn around. "There's a boat waiting for me."

"Not right now," she runs her hand across the breadth of his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin through his sweatshirt, and he leans back into her touch. "I mean with Lincoln's case."

He tilts his head to look at her, his eyes dancing with private amusement, and she's suddenly reminded of the first time they met. _I'm Michael, by the way._ "You're safer not knowing, trust me."

"Safer, maybe. Not happier, though." So many of her questions are still unanswered, but she knows better than to ask. Resting her chin on his shoulder, she slides her arms around his waist. Perhaps this conversation will be less painful if she doesn't have to look at him. "What can I do? Do you need money? I could-"

He shakes his head. "Money isn't a problem."

"Swiss bank account?" She's only half joking.

He glances back at her, his wide mouth curving in a smirk. "When this is all over, remind me to tell you the story of D.B. Cooper." She files that little tidbit away for future consideration as he turns to face her, running his hands slowly up her arms to rest on her shoulders.

"Are you any closer to uncovering the - " even though she knows that's what this is, she can't say _conspiracy_, it's just makes everything seem so ludicrously surreal, "the truth?"

"We've made a few powerful allies lately." He looks vaguely pleased with himself, and she can't help smiling. "Everything's starting to unravel," he adds, lifting his hand to touch her face, "piece by piece."

"My father." The word sticks in her throat a little, but she has to know. "How deeply is he involved in this?"

"He's an ambitious man who wasn't strong enough to resist an easy ride." He rest his warm hand in the crook of her neck, his thumb idly stroking her collarbone. "I doubt he realised what he was getting himself into."

She doesn't know if he's telling her the truth or simply telling her what she wants to hear, but for once she doesn't care. His first instinct is to protect her and as infuriating as that may be, it only confirms everything she's come to believe about him.

She puts her hands on his chest, her fingers toying with the drawstring of his hooded shirt. "You once asked me to wait for you."

His eyes darken. "I know." He's so close that she can see the green flecks in his irises and smell the mint of his breath. He's used her toothpaste, she realises, and the thought gives her a foolish little glow.

"Do you still mean it?

His face tightens. "I can't ask that of you."

She shifts closer, letting her thigh brush against his. "Do you still mean it?"

His tanned throat works as he swallows hard. "Yes."

Something inside her blossoms into life. It takes her a moment to recognize it as hope. "Would you do something for me in return, Michael?"

He's watching her the same way he'd watched her that day in the infirmary – as though he'd just made some wonderfully unexpected discovery. "Anything."

Her chest feels tight and as hollow as a drum. "Stay alive for me?"

His smile lights up his eyes. "I'll do my best." He cups her face in his hands, his smile fading, his eyes burning into hers. "This isn't goodbye, Sara."

"It was Max," she hears herself say.

He blinks. "What?"

"The dog we had when I was a child." She gives him a shaky smile. "His name was Max." She waits to see his slow grin, then kisses him softly. "Maybe there are still a few secrets for you to discover." She presses her forehead against his. "When this is all over."

"I'm counting on it." He lets out a long breath, then tilts his head back to look at her. His eyes are glittering. "Promise me you'll be careful."

Her heart feels as though it's splintering in two, but she has to fight the absurd urge to chuckle. "I think that's my line."

"Promise me." His hands are on her shoulders now, his fingers pressing hard into her flesh as he stares at her, his voice hardening as he repeats the words. "Promise me that you'll be careful."

"I promise." She catches his hand in hers, presses it over her heart, the warmth of his palm soaking through her thin t-shirt. "But Michael, if something happens, if this is all we have-"

"Have a little faith," he murmurs, then he kisses her, his mouth warm and gentle. "This isn't goodbye," he says again, his voice not quite steady. He presses one last kiss against her forehead, his hands cradling her face, then he pulls away. "I have to go."

She steps back, her hands dropping to her sides, letting him go. Closing her eyes, she turns towards the sound of the sea. She counts to ten and doesn't hear the sound of the door closing. When she's counted to twenty, she opens her eyes and stares at the sky until the stars blur. When – she has no idea how much later - the first pale streak of daylight slices across the sky, a sudden chill plucking at her bare arms, she turns to stare at the empty room behind her.

He's gone, of course, and yet his presence is all around her, his scent lingering on her clothes, her skin. "Have a little faith," she whispers, finding an odd sense of comfort in the words. The sun is coming up now – she can feel the feeble warmth of it at her back – and she suddenly realises that it's a brand new day. Vaguely wondering about the time, she walks towards the desk where she'd put her watch the night before. As she reaches for it, her hand stills, her heart doing an odd little dance as she stares at the small paper bird sitting next to her watch. It's a origami crane made from the hotel stationery and it's small and delicate and perfect. She picks it up with trembling fingers and cradles it in the palm of her hand, her thoughts stretching back to another time, another place.

_And then there's optimism. Hope. Faith._

Her heart is raw and bruised and everything hurts so much, but she suddenly finds herself smiling as she gently touches the outstretched wings of the paper bird in her hand. Because maybe it's not too late to make a difference after all.

 

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

__

If we are facing in the right direction, all we have to do is keep on walking.

~ Buddhist quote

 

~*~

 

He's gone, of course, and yet his presence is all around her, his scent lingering on her clothes, her skin. "Have a little faith," she whispers, finding an odd sense of comfort in the words. The sun is coming up now – she can feel the feeble warmth of it at her back – and she suddenly realises that it's a brand new day. Vaguely wondering about the time, she walks towards the desk where she'd put her watch the night before. As she reaches for it, her hand stills, her heart doing an odd little dance as she stares at the small paper bird sitting next to her watch. It's an origami crane made from the hotel stationery and it's small and delicate and perfect. She picks it up with trembling fingers and cradles it in the palm of her hand, her thoughts stretching back to another time, another place.

_And then there's optimism. Hope. Faith._

Her heart is raw and bruised and everything hurts so much, but she suddenly finds herself smiling as she gently touches the outstretched wings of the paper bird in her hand. Because maybe it's not too late to make a difference after all.

 

~*~

 

She doesn't bother trying to sleep. Instead she showers, packs – carefully putting the origami crane in her cosmetics case - and pounces on the morning newspapers as soon as they are delivered to her door. She briefly debates the possibility of skipping the last morning-only session of the conference, but her plane tickets are non-refundable and really, what is the point of sitting at the airport for six hours with nothing but her thoughts for company?

She goes down to the main conference room once more, where she somehow manages to appear attentive and alert, despite feeling neither of those things. They're given two short breaks during the morning, and she takes the opportunity both times to beat a hasty retreat to her room, turning on the television to anxiously scan the news channels. Just like the morning's newspapers, there was no mention of any new sightings of any Fox River escapees, and her whole body literally sags with relief.

Twenty minutes after the session finishes, she is standing at the front door of the hotel, her luggage at her feet, politely requesting the concierge to find her a taxi as soon as humanly possible. It is yet another glorious day – blue sky, warm breeze, smiling locals - and she has the absurd urge to pinch herself. Everything is almost too bright and colourful to be real, something she hadn't noticed the first few days of the conference. She doesn't have to think too hard to come up with a reason for the change in perception.

The flight to Chicago is quiet and uneventful. She speaks to no one and – apart from an overly chatty air steward – no one speaks to her. She's glad; she doesn't quite trust her voice or her tongue to behave themselves.

Her subtle headache threatens to become far more conspicuous as she waits in line to collect her bags, then waits in line for customs, answering the seemingly endless questions with as much enthusiasm as she can muster. _No, she has nothing to declare. Yes, she's a doctor. No, she's not carrying any drugs with her. Yes, the weather was lovely down there. Yes, she did make love with an escaped felon, thank you for asking._

Perhaps not that last one, she thinks with more than a touch of hysteria.

Everything looks different. She's passed through O'Hare more times than she can remember, and yet today it feels foreign. She suspects, however, that she is the only thing that has changed.

Readjusting her grip on the handle of her suitcase, she doggedly makes her way through the crowds towards the nearest taxi stand. Normally she would catch the shuttle van, but not today. She feels as though she hasn't slept for days, and despite the low grade adrenalin that has been buzzing through her system for the last twenty-four hours, she is utterly exhausted.

Sitting in the back of the taxi, silently giving thanks for her luck in getting the only driver in the city who apparently doesn't like making idle chit-chat, she stares out the window, seeing everything and nothing. Like the airport, the familiar streets of her neighbourhood look different, and she can't help wondering if she's the only one seeing things with new eyes today, wondering if Michael - amidst his schemes and plans - is also catching himself every five minutes as another memory of their night together bursts into his head.

Her apartment smells musty, as though it's been empty for weeks rather than days. The only mail waiting for her consists of bills and junk mail, a selection that matches her mood. She puts on the kettle to make tea, and turns on CNN, keeping one eye on the screen as she pulls out teabags and sugar and checks the expiration date on the unopened carton of milk in the fridge. After the lead story involving the war on terror - as if there's any other lead story these days, she thinks wryly - there's a short piece on President Reynolds' latest standings in the polls.

She frowns at the kettle, refusing to look at the television as they replay footage from a recent interview with the President. That woman's voice always did have the affect of fingernails down a blackboard, but now, given what she knows, Sara's not sure she can bear to look at that smiling face without wanting to hit something.

She's spooning sugar into her mug when she hears the words Fox River, and the teaspoon clatters onto the kitchen counter. The news anchor launches into a spiel about the ongoing hunt for the Fox River escapees, then the screen fills with black and white head shots. She clutches the edge of the counter, her blood running cold – and she'd always thought that was a myth – as her eyes zero in on Michael's mug shot.

It's the same photo that was clipped to his medical records at Fox River, and it gives her a jolt to see it on her television screen so soon after seeing him in the flesh. Holding her breath, she stares at Michael's face, the tight knot between her shoulder blades easing only when the news anchor announces that there have been no new leads or sightings. They'd obviously just run the story to tie in with the piece on the President, but it hits her again just how much of a risk Michael took in coming to her hotel. They may have been in another country, but thanks to the far-reaching power of the media, the world is an increasingly small place. The thought makes her feel faintly sick.

When the news team switches to another story – this time about the pilots' union threatening a strike – she grabs the remote and turns off the television. The sudden silence is a relief. One hip leaning against the kitchen counter, she drinks her tea slowly and wonders how she will find the strength to go back to Fox River tomorrow and pretend that nothing has happened. Of course, she's spent a long time pretending a lot of things never happened; perhaps she should be used to it by now.

Her tea finished, she swings her suitcase onto her bed to start the dreary task of unpacking. Her gaze falls on the souvenir t-shirt she'd been wearing the day earlier, and the sight gives her a strange little pang just below her heart. She pulls the shirt from her suitcase, intending to throw it in the clothes hamper, then gives in to the sudden impulse to bury her nose in the soft cotton. She closes her eyes as the mingled scent of her own perfume and Michael's skin washes over her, and a warm jolt of sensation ripples through her stomach.

She lifts her head and breathes in a lungful of non-scented air, but the butterflies in the pit of her belly refuse to be vanquished. "Damn it." She looks at the laundry hamper for a moment, then she drops the shirt back into her open suitcase, rummaging instead for her cosmetics bag. A few minutes later she carefully refolds the t-shirt, slips Michael's paper crane inside, then puts them both into the bottom drawer of her dresser. She's not going to walk around with a t-shirt clutched to her face like a security blanket, but she can't bear to wash away such a tangible reminder of him.

She doesn't feel like eating but she does, heating up soup and making toast, too restless to settle to the task of actually cooking anything more interesting. The soup is hot and burns her tongue, and she's glad of the simple pain. She feels distracted and disjointed, almost a stranger in her own home.

It's still early, but she finally gives in to her exhaustion. She takes a shower – turning up the temperature of the water until it beats painfully on her skin – and stays there until it runs cold. Drying herself briskly, her hands grow still when she sees the five tiny bruises high on her left thigh. Putting her fingertips carefully on the marks, she closes her eyes, her breath suddenly coming short, her skin tingling. It's the oddest thing, she thinks, that she could feel so numb yet have the slightest touch leave her aching with a longing that makes her whole body clench.

It takes her a long time to fall asleep. When she does, she dreams of him, dreams of walking with him on the beach, touching his hands, his mouth soft and warm as she kisses him. When she awakens, alone in her bed in Chicago, the tears on her lips taste like seawater and the distant noise of traffic sounds almost like the ocean.

 

~*~

 

After locking her car, she stands and studies the prison gates for a long moment. She looks at the stone walls and the glittering barbed wire, staring at them as though she's never really seen them before today, and maybe she hasn't.

Katie greets her with a broad smile. "Hey. How was the conference?"

She returns the smile as she drops her bag onto her desk. "Enlightening."

Katie looks down at her bare forearms, then shakes her head with an audible 'tsk' noise. "You didn't get much of a tan, girl."

"Well, you know me - I'm not much for sun bathing."

Her nurse is still shaking her head. "How many times do I have to tell you that you work too hard? If you'd taken me along, we could have had a fine old time. Did you do anything fun at all?"

She busies herself by putting her bag away in the bottom drawer of her desk. She's not sure of Katie's definition of fun, but she doubts it would have anything to do with how Sara spent her last night in Barbados. "A few things."

Katie leans against the corner of the desk. "Meet any nice doctors?"

For once, Katie's dogged determination to play matchmaker isn't unwelcome. Anything that might distract her from the fact that Sara's head is currently thousands of miles away is a good thing. "One or two," Sara says carefully as she shrugs into her lab coat.

"Get their numbers?"

She frowns, scanning the top of her desk. Where the hell was her stethoscope? "They weren't really my type." She looks up at Katie as she finishes speaking, just in time to catch the flicker of uncertainty that crosses her colleague's face. The memory of the last time they discussed the type of man Sara _did_ like is still obviously as fresh in Katie's mind as it is Sara's. There is an awkward pause, then Katie clears her throat.

"Doctor Crossing left some case notes for you." She points to a thin file sitting on the desk, then hands Sara her missing stethoscope. "And this was on _my_ desk."

"Thank you." Still frowning, Sara looks around the room. Her office is definitely not as she'd left it. Files have been shifted and stock rearranged just enough to be noticeable. She glances into the locked cabinet beside to the newly repaired window, and her heart sinks.

"I swear, that man could make hard work out of nothing," Katie is saying now. "He was always bustling around in here but just between you and me, he didn't do squat."

"Right." Sara forces a smile and looks away from the empty space where Michael's paper rose had once sat. "I'm guessing he moved a few things around while he was here?" she asks, taking care to keep her tone as light as possible.

"What he did was tidy up and toss stuff into the trash yesterday afternoon," Katie replies just as casually. "I guess he thought it made him look busy."

Sara blinks. "Oh. Right."

Her nurse smirks. "I waited until he'd gone home then I fished them right out again." She pulls open the top drawer of the desk. "Here you go."

Sara looks down to find several old notebooks, a packet of her favourite mints and the paper rose. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. We need a bit of colour around here."

_Colour._ The word lingers in her head, and she suddenly remembers. "I almost forgot." Sara pulls out the bottom drawer and rummages for the small plastic shopping bag she'd slipped into her handbag this morning. "I bought you something." She hands the bag to Katie, and watches as she pulls out the sarong Sara had bought in the Saint James' markets.

Katie holds it out in front of her for inspection, and the room is instantly brightened by dozens of vividly coloured flowers. "I love it, but you didn't have to bring me something back," she adds, peering at Sara over the top of the soft material.

"I wanted to."

"I'm glad you did." They share a smile that feels almost like the ones they used to share, then the sound of approaching footsteps has Katie looking over her shoulder. "Looks like we've got incoming," she says dryly.

Two minutes later, Sara is cleaning up the badly split lip of a new inmate. He's young and scared and she finds herself saying the soothing things she's always said to her patients, and she can't help wondering if any of them are ever really reassured by anything she tells them.

At the end of her shift, she puts the paper rose in her handbag and takes it home, slipping it between the folds of the t-shirt to join the origami crane. She knows she will miss seeing it during the day, but the thought that there is now one less thing belonging to Michael Scofield at Fox River makes her smile.

Later that night, she opens the cupboard above the sink and pulls out the half-empty bottle of Scotch she barely remembers buying on her way home from Fox River the night of the escape. She unscrews the lid and tips it into the sink, watching the pale liquid splash against the silver metal of the plughole. She rinses out the bottle twice, and shoves it into the trash with steady hands.

No more.

 

~*~

 

Life goes on and so does she because she has no other choice, not any more. She feels helpless, like an insect caught in amber, but every morning she gets out of bed and she goes to work and she tries to do her job as best she can and all the time her heart feels as though it's filled with lead.

On the nights she can sleep, she dreams of him. On the nights she can't, she sits on the couch with her laptop and researches the side-effects resulting from long-term misuse of PUGNAc and tries not to fear the worst. On those nights, when she finally forces herself to abandon the couch and the laptop, she stands at the window and stares up at the stars and knows that she is desperately afraid for a man who may already be dead.

There are days – the bad days, the days when every single thing reminds her of him - when her anger returns and she hates him for making her believe that they could have more than this. On those days, she reminds herself that the Japanese origami crane is a symbol of peace and hope and long life, and she prays for all three things for both of them.

She goes through the motions of living her life, and every new day makes it more and more obvious to her that she can't stay at Fox River. Whatever good she may have done in the past has been irrecoverably tainted, both for her and for those she serves. She may not be able to do anything to help Michael now, but maybe she can try to help herself.

_All I can do every day is the next right thing._

She stops researching the side effects of PUGNAc and begins to spend her evenings reading a different type of medical website, studying FAQs, weighing up every possibility. When she finally makes her decision, she fills out an application form on-line, holding her breath as she clicks _submit._

Then she waits.

She keeps getting out of bed and going to work and doing what she has to do - because she owes it to the Pope to honour her side of her father's bargain and she owes it to herself to stay sane - and she waits. Three weeks later, she receives a telephone call that lifts her out of her stupor and into a place that actually feels a little like optimism.

Telling the Pope that she needs two days' personal leave, she flies to New York and meets a panel of serious professionals who ask her many, many questions as to why she wants to join their organization.

"I want to get back to basics," she tells them quietly, wishing she didn't feel quite so outnumbered. There are five of them, and she suddenly feels very alone. "To help people who actually want my help."

One of the men on the panel gives her what she thinks is meant to be a sympathetic smile. "Do you see your connection to the current administration as being advantageous or more of a hindrance?"

She doesn't flinch. "I'd like to be able to say that I see it as neither, but I think we all know that would be naïve." She glances at the other members of the panel with a calm she is far from feeling, making eye contact briefly with all of them. "The best answer I can give you is that I've tried to keep my family ties and my professional life separate, and I will continue to do so."

She watches as he murmurs something to the woman next to him, and then they move on. She talks for what feels like hours, and listens for what feels like twice as long. Finally, they each shake her hand in turn and tell her they'll be in touch.

"The usual deployment is six months," says the woman in charge of proceedings – Doctor Jacob is her name - almost as an afterthought. "Would that be a problem for you?"

"No, not at all." _Six months, a year, whatever it takes._ She's not running away, she tells herself. She's not. She's simply walking in a different direction. Doing the next right thing. "I _would_ need to give my current employer a month's notice."

The woman smiles at her. "You understand that should you be successful, I may not be able to give you an indication of where you will be posted until the last moment? Things happen quickly here if there's an emergency and while we like most first missions to be planned, we can't always guarantee it."

"That's okay," Sara says, faintly surprised to find that she means it. "I would be happy to go anywhere I'm needed."

Two days later, Doctor Jacob calls to tell her that her application has been successful, and that they will send her a contract and be in touch again soon, probably within the next six weeks. She adds that it would be a good idea if Sara spoke to her current employer about her future plans sooner rather than later, then ends the call with the cheery wish that Sara have a good evening, leaving Sara sinking into the nearest chair, feeling dazed. That night she once again dreams of sand and the sound of the sea and Michael's hand in hers, but when she wakes, her heart isn't quite so heavy.

When she arrives at Fox River the next morning, she heads directly for the warden's office rather than the infirmary. The warden's secretary is already behind her desk, reading the newspaper. "Good morning, Becky."

Becky makes no effort to hide her obviously poor opinion of the prison's doctor. "Doctor Tancredi," she says coolly, her lip on the point on curling. Sara simply smiles at her. From what she's picked up from Katie's conversations over time, the warden's secretary can hardly be considered an authority on observing protocol when it comes to clandestine relationships.

"Is the warden available for a few minutes? I can come back at a more convenient time if necessary."

Becky pushes aside the morning's newspaper with dramatic reluctance, then reaches for the phone. "I'll check for you."

Sara stares at the wall behind Becky, trying not to listen to her hushed telephone conversation, concentrating instead on keeping her breathing steady. A moment later, Becky gives her a smile so saccharine it makes Sara's teeth ache. "The warden can see you now."

"Thank you."

Henry Pope rises to his feet as she enters his office. "What can I do for you, Doctor?"

"I won't take up much of your time," she says, taking the chair that he indicates with a wave of his hand. "Firstly, I'd like to apologise."

Halfway through dropping back into his own chair, he looks up at her from beneath his eyebrows, then frowns. "For what?"

She crosses her feet at the ankles and clasps her hands together tightly in her lap. "I'm sorry that I let my father dictate to both of us."

His expression doesn't change, the frown still creasing his forehead. "I see."

She takes a deep breath, then launches into the speech she has been practicing since last night. "My mistake on the night of the break out compromised the integrity of your command." Her mouth is dry, but she pushes herself to go on. "I should never have allowed myself to be pressured into staying on against your clear wishes."

He blinks, then his frown clears. "I see." He hesitates, then adds a polite, "I appreciate the apology."

"That said," she reaches into her handbag, then slides a sealed envelope across the desk towards him, "I need to give you this."

He picks up the envelope, but makes no attempt to open it. "What is it?"

"My resignation."

He looks genuinely puzzled. "Why?"

She gives him a weary smile. "I think we both know I'm not doing anyone any good by being here."

He uses his thumb to tear open the envelope, the sound of ripping paper loud in the quiet room. "What are your plans?" he asks as he begins to scan the letter.

"I'm going to be doing some volunteer work."

He looks up at her. "As a doctor?"

"Yes."

"Good." He carefully refolds the letter and slips it back into its envelope, then gives her a quizzical glance. "Your health concerns- " He breaks off, then starts again. "Are you fully recovered?"

Her pulse leaps, but she returns his gaze without flinching. "I'll always be a recovering addict," she says lightly, "but I'm clean and intend to stay that way."

"I'm glad to hear it." He rises to his feet, and she takes her cue, pushing back her chair as well. He walks around the large desk to offer her his hand, and the gesture touches her more than she would like. She hadn't realised how much she'd missed being well-regarded by this man. "It's been a pleasure working with you, Doctor," he says in a gruff voice that holds more than a hint of surprise, as though he's just now realising the truth of his words.

"Thank you." To her own surprise, her eyes start to sting. "You were good enough to give me a second chance, and I want you to know how much I appreciate that."

He walks her to the door of his office, then stops in his tracks, turning to her with a puzzled expression. "Do you want to know the ridiculous thing about this whole Scofield mess?"

Her next step falters clumsily. She hadn't expected him to mention Michael's name. Putting one hand on the door handle, she gives him what she hopes is a neutral look. "What?"

"I miss the sonofabitch." He shakes his head. "How crazy is that?"

She smiles at him, suddenly not caring if she appears neutral or not. She knows how Michael felt about the warden, and it pleases her to know that Henry Pope misses him. "Not so crazy."

She's almost at the infirmary before she realises she's still smiling.

 

~*~

 

"Katie, you got a minute?"

Katie shifts her armful of patient files from one hip to the other. "Sure."

She closes the door of her office, then turns to the woman who was responsible for saving her life. "I wanted to tell you before you heard it from anyone else." Katie lifts her eyebrows and purses her lips, as if expecting to hear a particularly juicy piece of gossip, and Sara hastily continues, "I've just handed in my resignation. I'll be leaving a month from today."

Her nurse's face falls. "Damn." She frowns, her expression becoming even more crestfallen. "Don't tell me they're gonna put that idiot locum in here full-time."

"You don't like him?"

Katie scowls. "If I have to work another day with that man, they're gonna haul _my_ ass off for murder."

Sara hides a smile. "Maybe I could convince the Pope to look for a more suitable permanent replacement?"

"That would be good."

They look at each other for a moment, then Sara reaches out and takes half the files from Katie's arms. "Listen, uh, you want to grab a coffee after work?"

The other woman hesitates, then nods, a slow grin spreading across her face. "That would be good."

 

~*~

 

Two days later, Brad Bellick appears in her doorway. He's alone, his expression filled with the disdain he seems to reserve solely for her, and she wonders fleetingly what happened to the seemingly gentle man who once asked her out to dinner. Perhaps he never existed at all. "I hear you're leaving us."

She marks off another few items on the drug cabinet inventory sheet. "I'm afraid so."

"Now that your work here is done."

She says nothing. Perhaps if she ignores him long enough, he'll get the hint. Then again, she thinks sourly, this _is_ Bellick.

"I also hear there was a new sighting of your little pet Scofield last night, down Mexico way, as they say."

Her heartbeat staggers, but she does her best to give him an unimpressed stare. "Is that right?"

"I'm surprised you hadn't heard about it yourself."

Her grip on her pen tightens. "Actually, I've been a bit too busy to keep up with prison gossip lately."

He smirks. "Or maybe you don't have to keep up because you already know all about it."

She clicks the top of her pen a few times, indulging briefly in the very pleasant daydream of using it as a tongue depressor on him. It was a bad idea, but it would almost be worth it. "Is there a point to this conversation?"

He moves closer, his narrowed gaze boring into her face. "I _know_ you helped Scofield." He moves closer still, his shuffling steps closing the distance between them. "The Pope may have been fooled by your big-eyed innocent little Miss Muffet act, but I know a liar when I smell one." He inhales, his eyes narrowing. "And you, _Doctor Tancredi_, stink to high heaven."

"Really." She slips her paperwork inside its usual folder, then snaps the folder shut. "As entertaining as this conversation is, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave." She glances pointedly at the clock. "I have patients to see."

He doesn't move. "Must be nice, having a Daddy who can solve all your problems for you. Dragging you up out of the gutter every time you fall off the wagon."

She sucks in a breath, anger sharpening her tongue. "I may have been down in the gutter, _Officer_ Bellick, but as I recall, you were right there with me." She looks at him. "Tell me something - do you drink club soda at those strip clubs you visit every night, or is your sponsor working overtime these days?"

His jaw drops. She smiles. "If you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

His expression hardens, but he begins to walk slowly towards the open door of her office. "The truth's gonna come out one day."

She stares at him, thinking of everything she knows about his treatment of the inmates in his care. She thinks of Michael's bloodied toes and the way Bellick spoke to him as though he was no better than a stray dog. Taking a steadying breath, she reminds herself that in four weeks' time, she will never have to lay eyes on this man again. "I'm counting on it."

 

~*~

 

"I thought we'd agreed that you wouldn't pay me any more surprise visits."

"Well, you know me. I can never resist a chance to air our dirty laundry on a whim." Her hands are cold – the air-conditioning in her father's office is icy - but she resists the urge to tuck them under her thighs. She doesn't need any more help to feel like a rebellious teenager in her father's presence. "I wanted to thank you for everything you've done for me. You probably won't believe me, but I'm grateful."

He sits back in his chair, his dark suit a perfect match for the leather upholstery. "Well, I've been waiting a long time to hear that from you."

His sanctimonious tone stings, pushing her right back into their old pattern. "The thing is, though, I can't help wishing you'd done them because you loved me."

He stares at her, then starts shaking his head. "Unbelievable. You just can't give anything without taking something away, can you?"

"Well, like you said, I guess we're not that different after all." He opens his mouth to retort, but she puts up her hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't come here to get into that again. I just wanted to let you know I've resigned from Fox River."

"To do what?" He looks at her as though she's suddenly speaking a foreign language. "Sit on your over-educated behind and collect unemployment?"

"I'm going to do some volunteer work." He's watching her expectantly, so she adds a reluctant, "Doctors Without Borders."

He raises his eyebrows, his expression a picture of skepticism. "If they'll have you."

"They've already accepted my application," she shoots back calmly. "I should receive my first posting in a month's time."

He looks taken aback, an almost vulnerable expression crossing his face, and for a moment she thinks she recognises the man he once was. Then he scowls, and the illusion is gone. "So you're going to Africa or India or god knows where? You'd just be swapping one hellhole for another and for what? Be eaten alive by mosquitoes and have to crap in a hole in the ground?"

"It's nothing I haven't done before."

"You were a lot younger then."

"Well, I'm older and wiser now." She looks at him sadly. "About a lot of things."

He shakes his head, then picks up his fountain pen to scribble something on the pad in front of him. "You know you won't be able to slip under the radar this time. I gave in on the whole Barbados thing, but this is something else. Like it or not, you will be seen as a representative of this country and this administration."

She feels her mouth thin into a mulish line at the thought. "They're a non-government organisation," she says carefully, "and I don't want a babysitter."

"It doesn't matter if you want one or not," he says flatly. "Damn it, Sara, you're the daughter of the Vice President of the United States. Start acting like it."

She glares at him, the urge to fire back a sharp retort almost burning a hole in her tongue. But she bites back the impulse, telling herself that this is not who she is, not anymore. "Fine. Do whatever you have to do."

They sit in silence for a long moment. "What will you do for money?" he finally says, his brow furrowing with concern she can almost believe is just for her.

"I'll be paid, but thank you for asking." She gets to her feet, walks around his desk, then bends down to brush his cheek with her lips. She can't remember the last time she kissed him.

His expression softens, and she feels the sudden urge to put her arms around him, but she simply puts her hand on his shoulder as he says, "Will you let my secretary know the details as soon as you know them?" He nods towards his notepad. "So the arrangements can be made."

_His secretary_, she thinks dourly. "Sure." Dropping her hand, she straightens and gives him a smile she suspects looks as forced as it feels. "Goodbye, Dad."

 

~*~

 

Lincoln's son is to be tried as a minor, thanks to an exhaustive appeals process by his lawyer. Sara has been following the case as closely as she can bear; it's both a distraction from and a reminder of Michael's current precarious status as a free man. Two weeks before she is due to take up her first overseas posting, she calls Veronica Donovan's cell phone from a pay phone nowhere near her home. She waits anxiously as the phone rings at the other end, having no way of knowing if this number is still current – then she hears Veronica's familiar voice. "Hello?"

"Hi. It's Sara." She hesitates, then adds a hasty, "Tancredi," as if Veronica receives calls from nervous-sounding women called Sara all the time.

"Hey, how are you?"

"I'm fine." She stares through the smeared glass of the phone booth at the passing traffic. She doesn't want to get into an in-depth conversation, at least not about herself. "I read the news about L.J.'s trial. Congratulations."

Veronica sighs. "Don't congratulate me – there's a long road ahead."

"How is he?"

"As well as can be expected with a double homicide rap hanging over his head and his only surviving family being hunted down like dogs."

Sara closes her eyes, feeling an echo of the other woman's anger reverberating along her own bones. "I'm leaving town for a while."

Veronica's reply is swift and decisive. "We should meet before you go."

It's not a request, but Sara is more than happy to comply. This woman is her only link with Michael and as tenuous as that link may be at the moment, she can't bear to walk away without making contact one last time. She didn't simply ring Veronica to talk about LJ, and they both know it. "Where?"

"Do you remember where we met last time?"

"How could I forget?" Sara asks dryly. Being ambushed – even by an ally - in broad daylight does tend to stick in one's memory.

The next day, she chooses to wait in the same booth she'd chosen on her previous visit to this coffee shop. Sadly, the coffee doesn't seem to have improved; she eventually pushes it to one side and plays with the sugar packets until she sees Veronica climbing out of a non-descript sedan that's seen better days.

The other woman looks tired and drawn, but she manages to give Sara a bright smile. "Hi."

"It's nice to see you," Sara says, and is pleasantly surprised to find that it's true.

Veronica slides into the other side of the booth. She doesn't bother taking off her coat. Her hair is longer now, her casual clothes still immaculate but a far cry from the suits Sara remembers. "How are you?"

Sara smiles. "Better." It's another truth, but one that's less of a surprise.

"I'm glad."

"Do you want coffee?" Sara looks at her almost full cup. "I should warn you, though, it's pretty nasty."

Veronica purses her lips, then shakes her head. "I'm good." She puts her elbows on the table, her gaze searching Sara's face. "You said you were leaving town?"

"Yes. Doctors Without Borders have accepted my application to work with them."

"That's great. Where are you going?"

"I should find out in the next few days." Sara offers her a rueful smile. "Hopefully."

Veronica nods slowly, as if processing the information, then asks, "Will you check in now and then?"

Sara hesitates as she tries to evaluate the logistics of her as yet unknown future living situation. "If I can."

"Good." Veronica gives her an odd look, one that is part amusement, part resentment. "One of my former clients has expressed a hope that you might keep in touch."

Sara flushes, a rush of heat skimming up the back of her neck and warming her face. "Right." Conscious of the sudden acceleration of her pulse, she leans closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. "How are they?"

"Taking the phrase 'living on the edge' to a new level, but they're okay." Veronica presses her lips into a thin line. "They're still alive, and that's the main thing." After digging around in her oversized handbag for a moment, she pulls out a pen and a business card. She scribbles on the back of the card, then slides it across the table. "Use this cell number or this email address to reach me. They're both secure." Her face hardens. "Something I've learned in the last year is to be prepared for anything."

"Thank you." Sara slips the card into the inside pocket of her coat, then looks at the woman who has already been through so much in her quest to save the people she loves. "Maybe by the next time I see you, this will all be over."

Veronica tries to smile, but doesn't quite manage the task. "Maybe."

On impulse, Sara reaches across the table, taking Veronica's hand in hers. "Good luck," she says softly, squeezing the cold fingers with their bitten nails. "Be careful."

Veronica smiles wryly, and Sara knows she recognizes her own words from their last conversation here. "Any message you'd like me to pass on?"

"Yes." Sara takes a deep breath, then gives the other woman a grin that's an odd match for the tears she suddenly feels brimming in her eyes. "Tell him he owes me six bucks for the beer."

 

~*~

 

Luanda is not, as her father predicted, hell on earth. From the air, the water of the bay is blue and clear, the sand glaringly white. It's beautiful, but she's almost too overwhelmed by nerves to appreciate it. She's been second guessing herself for so long that it's hard to know when to stop, hard to remember that she used to do this sort of thing without blinking an eye.

On the ground, it's dry and hot. She glances at her new constant companion, a burly Secret Service agent by the name of Joseph Armenta, who is surveying their surroundings through narrowed eyes. "Not quite what you expected?"

He gives her a look that makes her feel as though he has already taken her measure and stowed the information away for future reference, then slides on the darkest sunglasses she's ever seen. "I make a point of expecting everything, ma'am."

_Okay._ "How's your Portuguese?" she asks as she discreetly acknowledges a teenaged boy carrying a small sign that says _Médecins Sans Frontières_.

Joseph flashes a grin filled with startling white teeth as the blended sounds of several different tongues waft around them. "Perfeito."

The trip to the MSF compound is a bumpy and hot one, and she's already tiring of the shadow at her shoulder. It could have been worse – he's pleasant enough and not entirely hard on the eyes with his black hair and olive skin – but she feels her spine stiffen every time she remembers his presence. Once they arrive, they're taken to the clinic where she is introduced to the other members of the medical staff, who are friendly and numerous and she is soon struggling to remember all their names. The American members of the team gaze at her with an avid speculation she knows only too well, and she has to remind herself that she's had years of practice at being Frank Tancredi's daughter and she can _do_ this, she can make this work. Having Joseph Armenta trailing her twenty-four hours a day is going to be a challenge, but if that means she is able to be here, then so be it.

She's shown the accommodation – small wooden share houses that sleep two people to a room – and the makeshift bar ("The bar is usually the second thing built, right after the latrine," her laconic guide tells her) and, of course, the latrine in question. The first stumbling block comes five minutes later, when Joseph quietly insists that arrangements be changed, as it is not possible for Doctor Tancredi to share a room. Sara spends several minutes gaining a new respect for the word _mortified_, but there is no way around it and it's done almost before she has a chance to apologise for causing an inconvenience.

The rest of the day is a blur of faces and hand shaking and filling out forms. By the time she's alone in her room that evening – and she can't help but be secretly grateful that she _is_ alone – her head is spinning. The bed is narrow and she has the sudden sense of being away at camp, but she feels better than she has for a long time. It's not a perfect solution but it feels right and, for now, that's good enough.

Over the next week, it becomes increasingly difficult to remember she's ever worked anywhere else. Finding herself in the middle of a cholera epidemic means that there's very little time for introspection or navel-gazing – at least during the day - and she's glad. She might think of Michael every time she needs to administer an injection, but every day it gets easier to bury those thoughts underneath an increasing feeling of anger directed squarely at the imbalance of the universe. They lose two lives for every one they save, and it's difficult not to give into the type of despair that only comes with the knowledge that this didn't have to happen.

The presence of her official babysitter grates on her for the first day or two, then she becomes too busy to care. By the end of the first week, they have reached a cautious understanding – he stays outside the cholera tents and the clinic when she's on duty and she stops trying to give him the slip every other day - and she can't deny that she could have been saddled with worse. Several of the nurses are only too happy to press him into service – after all, to them he is simply standing around with nothing to do - and Sara has to suppress a smile more than once at the sight of him stoically carrying buckets of clean water. She knows he prides himself on being prepared for anything, but she doubts he was prepared for the demands on a healthy male with a strong back in a place like this.

Her days are hectic but the nights are a different story. When she's not rostered on the evening shift, she spends her time reading case notes and the occasional borrowed paperback. She avoids the bar as much as possible, more to escape the undeniable fact that she is a newly arrived single female rather than her own demons. She's felt the subtle – and the less-than subtle - interest from a few of her male colleagues on several occasions, something she definitely doesn't want or need.

With nothing but week-old newspapers and her own thoughts for company, she actually encourages Katie to email her dreadful jokes and chain letters, something she thought she'd never do. Some nights, after she's made it quite clear to Joseph that she needs a moment alone, she emails Veronica Donovan. She writes cautious details of her new life and makes no mention of their mutual acquaintances, always conscious of the fact that there is every chance Veronica won't be the only one reading. She deletes every email after it's been read or sent and changes the password to her webmail constantly. She has grown to like Joseph, but she never lets herself forget who employs him.

Veronica's replies are just as guarded and contain little to give her hope or cause distress. No news is supposed to be good news, but Sara has grown increasing skeptical of that particular cliché's basis in truth, because no news simple makes her sick at heart. She is not an overly religious person, but she finds herself whispering a pleading mantra every night when she's alone in her room. _Please be safe. _

She's been in Luanda for three months – something that shocks her when she realises - when it happens. After the evening meal, she finds an available laptop and takes it to the small communal break room to check her email. There's a message in her inbox she'd be tempted to delete as spam if she were at home; the sender's username is unfamiliar and there's no subject heading. But she's not at home and every new email is a distraction, if only for a few minutes, so she clicks on it and everything around her seems to shift and shake because it's from Michael.

_It's started. TS alive and kicking and talking up a storm. Stay there and stay safe. Owe you six bucks for beer._

She smiles, then she starts to laugh softly, tears blurring the words on the screen. She knows she should be confused as to how the hell she can be laughing and still feel as though her heart is being ripped out, but it's Michael and she knows now that's the way it will always be with him.

Her shadow is drinking coffee at the other end of the long table. He looks over at her, concern etched on his face. "Are you all right, ma'am?"

"I'm fine, Joseph," she says, laughter fizzing up in her throat like imported champagne as she clicks delete. "I'm totally fine."

 

~*~

 

It's another two weeks before anything hits the newspapers, and then it doesn't stop, becoming an avalanche of biblical proportions. She snatches at the scraps of news as quickly as she can, reading news feeds from around the world whenever the satellite link will allow, scarcely able to believe what she's seeing can be real. The exhumation of President Mills' body, the removal of President Reynolds from office, the living, breathing Terrance Steadman paraded for the whole world to see. It's the biggest scandal to ever hit an administration, and the resulting media frenzy is something to behold, the repercussions reaching her little corner of the world a lot sooner than she would have liked.

When Joseph unexpectedly materializes at her elbow in the main tent, Sara shoots him a quick glance, annoyed that he's gone against their agreement that her give her some space while she's attending to patients. Then she sees his face, his normally impassive expression replaced by something approaching urgency, and her heart sinks. "What is it?"

"You have a telephone call." His tone clearly indicates that she is to drop whatever it is that she's doing _now_.

"Sure." Her heart pounding, she catches the gaze of the nearest nurse, then nods towards Joseph. "I'm sorry, I have to step out for a minute."

A few minutes later, she is being directed into the communications room. She barely has time to notice that Joseph has ushered everyone else from the room before he's handing her the satellite phone and taking up his usual position outside the door. She swallows hard, then puts the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

"Sara?"

She sits up straighter in the chair. "Dad?"

"How are you?"

She glances at her watch, frowning as she realises it's after midnight in Washington. "Uh, I'm doing really well. How are you?"

"Do you remember talking about that old saying of your mother's? About how it's nice to be asked to the dance, even if you don't have the right shoes?"

He sounds odd, almost as though he's talking to himself, and her apprehension grows. "What's wrong, Dad?"

"I announced my resignation this morning, Sara."

She feels the blood drain from her face. "What?"

"Caroline Reynolds is finished." He says the name as though it's a bad taste in his mouth, and Sara dazedly thinks that this is the first time they've shared a political opinion. "Her dirty little scheme has been blown wide open."

She hesitates, not wanting to appear more informed than she should, finally settling on a vague, "So I've heard."

"They wanted me to step up, Sara." His voice is thick, almost slurred. "I could have been the next goddamned President of the United States."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because nothing would have made this right again," he says unsteadily, sounding like a defeated old man. "The people need to have an unshakable trust in their leaders, and I'm not the man for that job. They deserve better than someone who was so blind that he couldn't see what was happening right in front of him."

She'd thought he'd never again be able to make her feel as though her heart was breaking, but she was wrong; her face is suddenly damp with tears. "I'm so sorry, Dad."

"So am I." He hesitates, and she holds her breath – _tell me you're sorry about Lincoln Burrows_ \- but he merely adds, "I have to go. I just wanted – well, I just wanted to tell you myself." He hesitates again, then finishes with a rushed, "We'll talk later."

And then he's gone, leaving her with the sound of the dial tone and the feeling that the proverbial rug has been pulled out from under her. She gets to her feet and makes her way to the door, her legs feeling more than a little unsteady. "You already know, I take it?" she says to Joseph.

He nods. "Yes, ma'am."

She pats his shoulder as she says wryly, "I think you can call me Sara now, don't you?"

By that afternoon, it doesn't matter how he addresses her, because he has received new orders recalling him to Washington. Sara thanks him for looking out for her, earning herself a rare smile for her trouble. As she watches the truck leave for the airport, she can't help thinking again that, as unwanted shadows went, he could have been a whole lot worse. She suspects one or two of the nurses are thinking rather more lurid thoughts, given that they seem to be watching the departing truck with distinctly melancholy faces.

The next day, she wakes to a world in which she is no longer the Vice President's daughter or even the Governor's daughter. She is simply herself, despite the whispers she knows will follow her around for the rest of her life. Using his private home email address, she sends a message to her father, telling him that she is thinking of him and if he needs her, she will find a way to cut short her time here. He replies within the hour, telling her that he's survived worse things than this – he mentions her mother twice, bringing tears to her eyes – and that she should stay where she is and that he's proud of her. She reads the email several times, then deletes it - just as she'd deleted Michael's - because life needs to go on, just as it always does.

One week after Frank Tancredi's resignation, an email from Veronica informs her that Michael and Lincoln have surrendered to the authorities without any harm coming to either of them. The relief she feels – _he's alive, they're both alive_ – is tempered with the knowledge that this is far from over.

Once again she feels helpless, trapped in limbo despite the very real urgency of her daily routine. When Veronica tells her that that Lincoln and Michael will face the judiciary once again and that she's engaged the services of a renowned trial lawyer to oversee both cases, Sara feels the distance between them more keenly than she ever has before.

She buries herself in her work for the next month, refusing to give the people in her care any less than her best, but every day that passes without any news makes her feel a little more stretched, a little more empty and very, very far away. Both men are in custody awaiting trial, and she has given up hope of finding another email from Michael in her inbox. It doesn't stop her checking every night, though, a tiny flicker of hope refusing to be extinguished.

Then, just when she's ready to leap out of her skin with tension, Veronica sends two more emails, one day apart. The first says that all charges against Lincoln have been dropped - Sara grins at the words _completely exonerated_, and she can only imagine Veronica's expression as she actually typed them – and it's all she can do not to toss the laptop in the air with relief. Her fingers are shaking as she types her reply, and she's almost able to believe that it's all over.

The next day, she receives Veronica's second email. While neither Michael or Lincoln are to be charged for the additional felony of breaking out of a correctional facility – Veronica's email refers to this development as 'The Powers That Be Covering Their Asses' – the fact remains that Michael was guilty of the crime for which he was sent to Fox River. Any new charges against him may have been dropped, but that has no effect on his prior conviction. Lincoln has walked out of the court a free man, but Michael has been remanded in custody, awaiting transfer to the prison where he will serve out the rest of his term.

Later, she doesn't remember making her way to the communications room, or asking for clearance to use the satellite phone. She apparently does both these things, because within minutes of receiving the second email, she is sitting in the communications room, the phone in her hand. She doesn't bother to check the time difference before she dials Veronica's cell phone number; she's not particularly concerned with social niceties at this point.

Veronica sounds alert and completely unfazed to be called in the middle of the night. "I've been expecting to hear from you."

Sara doesn't bother making small talk; she doubts the other woman expects any. "Are you going to appeal the sentence?"

There's a loud sigh at the other end of the phone. "Michael refused to appeal."

"Why?"

"You know Michael." She can almost hear Veronica's shrug. "He likes to pay his debts," she said simply.

A wave of nausea rolls through her stomach. She does know him and she's is suddenly more afraid for him than she's been in months. "Please don't let them send him back to Fox River," she whispers unsteadily, her fingers twisting themselves through the telephone cord.

"Don't worry." Veronica's voice is hard, almost cold. "I won't."

One week later, while Sara is still thousands of miles away from him, Michael Scofield begins the remainder of his five year sentence at a medium security correctional institution in Pekin, Illinois. Not even the fact that she has saved dozens of lives during the past week can stop her feeling as though she has failed somehow. That night, as exhausted as she is, she lies awake in her narrow bed, scarcely aware of the heat and the noise, and lets herself cry for him for what she hopes will be the last time.

 

~*~

 

It's another month before she manages to speak to him, and even then it takes several attempts before she can get him to the phone. She tells herself that these things are always difficult to manage, but then can't help thinking that Michael has never let such minor details stand in his way.

"Hello?"

"Hi."

She hears him exhale, and then he whispers one word. "Sara."

The sound of her name on his lips seems to reach across the ocean, squeezing her heart like a vise. She closes her eyes, clutching the bulky satellite phone a little tighter. "How are you?"

"Okay." _Liar_, she thinks darkly as he adds, "How are _you_?"

There are so many answers she could give him, but in the end she simply says, "I'm fine." Perhaps he's right to lie – the truth takes far too long and hurts far too much.

"I'm-" he hesitates, then goes on quickly, "I'm sorry about your father."

"Thank you." She keeps her eyes shut tight, feeling the warm pressure of tears behind her lids. "I'll be back in the States in a few weeks," she says, her voice not quite even. "What are your visiting hours?"

"No."

She opens her eyes, confused. "No, what?"

"I don't want you to come here."

She feels as though he's slapped her. "Why not?"

"You need to stay away."

"What?" The crackle of the satellite phone making the conversation seem even more surreal. "That's ridiculous, Michael."

"Is it? How do you think it will look for you to be seen visiting a convicted felon with whom you have such a colourful history?"

He's right, of course, but she really doesn't give a damn about appearances, not anymore. "I don't care about that."

"I do." His voice is so quiet she can hardly hear him. "You've made a clean break. You're out of this whole mess now - I won't let you get tangled up in it again."

"Surely that's my decision to make?"

"Please, Sara." He hesitates, and she finds herself holding her breath. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

"Veronica says you refuse to let her mount an appeal."

"There's no point."

"So, you've eased your guilty conscience by getting Lincoln exonerated and that's it?" She hates the words that are coming out of her mouth, but it doesn't make her stop throwing them at him. "It doesn't matter what happens to you? Or to you and me?" He says nothing, and she feels her tight grip on her emotions begin to fray. "Michael?"

"Five years is a long time, Sara."

Her breath catches in her throat. "What are you saying?"

There's another long pause. "I'm saying that maybe you've already wasted too much of your life on me."

"Don't do this," she shoots back, ignoring the insidious voice in the back of her head that wants to agree with him, the scratchy little whisper usually only haunts her in the middle in the night. "I'm not wasting my life here, Michael. I'm very busy doing exactly what I want to be doing." She takes a deep breath. "I meant what I said the last time we met - did you?" Her eyes are burning. "Did you mean all those pretty words you said to me?"

His answer is little more than an unsteady sigh. "Yes."

"Then let Veronica and Lincoln help you." _Let_ me_ help you_, she begs silently.

"I'll think about it," he mutters, his normally smooth voice sounding rough-edged and harsh. In the background she can hear the all too familiar sounds of prison life, and the combination of the two makes her stomach lurch. "But you need to stay away from here. There are still people out there who-" he breaks off abruptly, as though he's said more than he meant to say, but she's not in the mood for his avoidance tactics. Not now.

"What do you mean?"

He says nothing for a long moment, then she hears him whisper, "There are still people out there who would happily use you as leverage or bait or worse, and I won't let that happen."

A cold rush of dread sweeps over her. Before she can react, though, he's already talking, the urgency in his voice unmistakable. "Please understand that I need you to be safe. I need to be able to think of you as being safe and happy and far away from this place."

"Michael-"

The background noise on his end grows louder. "I have to go. I'm sorry, Sara."

She sits on the hard metal chair for a long time, cradling the now silent phone in her hands. Their one night together suddenly seems a long time ago, and she wonders – not for the first time – just how long hope can stay alive.

 

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

__

When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.

~ Charles A Beard

 

~*~

 

"Please understand that I need you to be safe. I need to be able to think of you as being safe and happy and far away from this place."

"Michael-"

The background noise on his end grows louder. "I have to go. I'm sorry, Sara."

She sits on the hard metal chair for a long time, cradling the now silent phone in her hands. Their one night together suddenly seems a long time ago, and she wonders – not for the first time – just how long hope can stay alive.

 

~*~

 

His skewed sense of moral obligation infuriates her, but she does as he asks. Despite the almost overwhelming urge to fly home, march through the front gates of Pekin and demand that he see her, she doesn't call again. She doesn't write or ask Veronica about him and with every passing day, she feels as though he's slipping further away from her.

She works herself to the point of falling-into-bed-without-taking-off-her-shoes exhaustion each night and is glad, because it's better than lying awake and thinking of Michael being locked in a cell. Her life becomes a blur of anxious faces and too-thin children, heat and dust and aching feet. Every day brings a new reason for her to feel frustrated and angry at the world at large, and sometimes she almost manages to forget the dull emptiness hollowing out her heart.

Almost.

Determined as she is not to count days or even hours, she's genuinely shocked one morning to glance at the calendar and realise that her time in Luanda is almost over. At first she thinks she must be mistaken, but then she's presented with a pile of forms to sign and the details for her flight back to the States, and it seems that six months really has passed. It's time to return to the 'real' world, a prospect that is suddenly quite daunting.

She packs her belongings the night before she's due to fly out, then works in the clinic right up to the time she has to leave for the airport. Not only does she know the value of every pair of willing hands, she is reluctant to give herself time to think about the people she's leaving behind.

The last six months have been both some of the most rewarding and the most difficult of her life. If she is completely honest with herself, it had been a way to escape, a way in which she could perhaps find some measure of peace within herself. It had been both those things, but then it had become so much more.

Amidst her own sorrow, she has found joy in the most ordinary of things - the spindly legs of a baby turning into solid, healthy flesh, a father well enough to go back to his job and feed his family, a mother no longer weeping every time she spoke of her children. Not even the smell of sickness and the ever-present spectre of death can quash the realisation that she has – for the first time in a long time – made a difference.

Her last hours in the compound seem to pass without her achieving much of anything, although she knows that's not really the case. One of the young boys carries her luggage to the truck, walking with the confident strut of someone who fought hard for the right to do so, leaving her free to make her hasty goodbyes. She finds herself clasping hands and squeezing shoulders, promising to keep in touch, promising that she will be back if she can. It's only when she allows herself to think of how many of her patients may not be alive this time next week that she has to fight the tears, but then she's being ushered towards the truck and it really is over.

Once on the plane, she sinks back into her seat and watches the blue water and white sand of the bay grow smaller and smaller. Ten minutes into the flight, she turns away from the window and puts her head back, closing her eyes as a growing feeling of nervous anticipation sweeps over her. However difficult the last six months might have been, what lies ahead may well prove even more of a challenge.

 

~*~

 

Pushing open the door of her apartment, Sara stares at her familiar belongings with newly appreciative eyes. Carpet. Couch. Television.

Her very own bathroom.

"Thank God," she says fervently, dropping her luggage onto the floor with a thump, stripping off her dusty clothes even before she's made it to the bathroom door. She's briefly tempted to luxuriate in the shower for as long as possible, but she's spent the last six months thinking of clean water as a precious commodity, and the thought of wasting it is suddenly abhorrent.

Five minutes later, she swipes a damp towel across the surface of the fogged mirror and studies her reflection, feeling like a stranger to her own eyes. Her hair desperately needs a trim and she still feels as though dust is trapped in every pore. She also appears to have acquired a light tan for the first time in years, which is a nice change. _On the other hand_, she thinks, frowning at the new freckles on her nose, _maybe not._

Her apartment is dusty and smells stale, but it's nothing a few scented candles and some fresh air won't fix. Before she'd left, her father had suggested she sub-let the apartment, but she'd refused to consider it. The building manager had promised to keep an eye on things for her - and it wasn't as though she had any pets or plants that needed attention - but the truth was that the thought of a stranger being in her home made her uneasy. Her father had muttered ominously about her decision, but he had finally let the issue drop.

There are no bills or junk mail waiting this time either - her mail has been redirected to her through DWB for the last six months – and that's just fine with her. She had arranged for the utilities to be paid automatically while she was away – something else that had vexed her father - but as she'd carefully explained to him, she had no interest in coming home to a cold and dark house if she returned from Luanda earlier than expected. It had been expensive, but the fact that she hadn't had to wrangle with the power and gas and phone companies via satellite phone had been worth it.

She doesn't turn on the television, not wanting to hear anything about her father or the Fox River scandal, not yet. She feels the oddest sense of being caught between two worlds, struggling to readjust to being back in her normal life, and she suddenly craves a few hours just to be alone. Tomorrow will find her father still pretending he's coping with the sudden changes in his life, while Michael will still be locked in a cell and refusing to speak to her. Tonight, she needs to look after herself.

Shunning her usual routine of heating up soup and making toast, she digs up a menu from her local Thai restaurant and orders in. When it arrives, she gives the delivery boy a tip big enough to make him grin, then closes the door firmly behind him. She turns away from the door, then reaches back to flip on the deadbolt, Michael's words of warning still fresh in her mind. If he thought there was a good reason for her to be careful, then she would be careful. His stubborn refusal to see her might have her left her with the urge to rush to Pekin and throttle him, but he was no fool, and neither was she.

After finishing her dinner in what feels like record time – it's only a simple chicken stir fry and rice but it's the best thing she's tasted in months - she finds herself in her bedroom, opening the bottom drawer of her dresser. When she pulls out the t-shirt she bought in Barbados, two small pieces of sculptured paper flutter to the floor at her feet. Reaching down, she scoops them up in her hands, her heart starting to pound as she sinks down onto the bed, an odd feeling of restlessness prickling her skin.

It's the same feeling that's plagued her ever since she'd stepped off the plane at O'Hare; a sense of something being missing, something being unfinished. It isn't difficult to decipher the source. It had been easy to pretend she could do as Michael asked when she'd been so far away from him, but now she's home and everything is different. _She_ is different, and she is not prepared to let him keep her at arm's length for four more goddamned years.

Four years. She swallows hard, trying to dislodge the unexpected lump in her throat. In the scheme of things, it's not an eternity.

It just feels like one.

She gazes at the origami figures in her cupped hands for a long moment, then places them carefully onto the top of her dresser rather than back in the drawer. Like so many other things in her life, they've been hidden away long enough. Taking a deep breath, she gets to her feet. She could get in her car and drive to Pekin and demand that Michael see her, or she could take a more subtle approach. Either way, she thinks as she begins to look for her cell phone, she has no intention of simply sitting around, waiting for him to change his mind.

 

~*~

 

When she sees her father for the first time in six months, she feels as though she's been kicked in the stomach. He looks ten years older, if not more, and this time she doesn't fight the urge to put her arms around him. "Hi, Dad."

For a few seconds, he's stiff in her embrace, then his arms snake around her waist and he's hugging her for what feels like the first time in years. When he pulls away, he looks embarrassed but pleased. "How was the flight home?" he asks, shutting the door behind her. He'd answered it himself, something she can't remember him doing in recent history.

"Long and cramped." She walks slowly into the elegantly appointed foyer of the home he bought two years after her mother died, trying not to look as out of place as she has always felt here.

He waves her into the living room. "You should have asked for an upgrade."

Oddly reassured by the presence of his customary haranguing, it's easy to suppress her own habitual eye-rolling. "I'll have to remember that next time."

"You're planning to work with them again?"

"If I can."

He looks as though he very much wants to say something in response to that. Thankfully, he doesn't. "Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?"

Having drunk several cups of herbal tea during the course of the day, she shakes her head. "I'm fine, thanks."

"Have a seat." She settles herself at one end of the large Chesterfield couch, while he takes the closest armchair. He studies her as she puts her handbag on the floor beside her feet, then he smiles. "You look good."

"Thanks. I feel good." She'd like to return the compliment, but she can't, not when he looks so tired and drawn. "How are you?"

"Oh, you know." He drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Plodding along."

She's quite sure her father has never plodded along in his life, but she lets it go. "I've heard a few things about President Graham's sweeping reforms in the Cabinet." It's an understatement, given one can barely turn around without seeing yet another headline or news story involving the handover of the country's leadership.

"He's made some big changes, that's for sure." He hesitates, then adds a reluctant, "He's a good man."

She bites the inside of her cheek in an effort not to smile. While her father is well practiced in the art of respecting his political opponents in public, she imagines it's rather a shock for him to find he held the same opinion in private.. "I'm glad to hear it." She crosses her legs, trying to find a comfortable position on the overstuffed couch. "What are your plans, if you don't mind me asking?"

His expression changes to something akin to enthusiasm. "Do you remember Jeffrey Ellis?"

She frowns, trying to place the name. "I don't think so."

"He and I went to Harvard together. You're probably too young to remember, but your mother and I used to socialize with him and his wife before-" He breaks off, his face flushing, but Sara has no trouble guessing the words he hasn't said. _Before it became too embarrassing to take her out in public._

"I don't remember him," she prompts gently, not wanting to go down that particular memory lane, not today. "But go on."

"He's the CEO of Alliance," he says, naming one of the country's largest insurance companies. "And he's offered me a position on the Board of Directors."

"That's wonderful," she says, meaning it. "You must be pleased?"

"I'm not sure," he replies with surprising candor. He settles back in his chair, his expression now somewhat melancholy. "It's not what I expected to be doing this year."

"I don't think any of us could have expected everything that's happened." _Another understatement_, she thinks with a dull pang.

They look at each other, and Sara sees her own uncertainty reflected in his eyes. She felt closer to him when she was thousands of miles away than she does at this moment. Things have changed between them, the balance subtly shifting, and she suspects he feels as unsure as to where they stand as she does.

Seeing that he seems to be waiting for her to speak, she gathers up her courage and does just that. "Can I ask you something?" He nods, and she takes a deep breath. "Now that you know Lincoln Burrows was set up, how do you feel about what happened at Fox River?"

He frowns. "The breakout, you mean?"

Her hands are clasped tightly together in her lap; she can feel her thumbnails digging into her palms. "Yes."

"What does it matter now?"

"I'm curious. He's a good man." She swallows the rest of her words – _and so is his brother_ – because now is not the time and she suspects it might _never_ be the time to talk to her father about Michael Scofield. "I'm not saying I condone what they did, but if you'd been in his position, wouldn't you have done everything you could to avoid being executed for a crime you didn't commit?"

"I agree it was a gross miscarriage of justice, but I don't know if you could call Burrows a good man. He may not have killed Terrance Steadman, but he's still got a rap sheet as long as my arm."

It's her turn to be candid. "I'd have one just as long if you hadn't intervened all the times you did."

He looks startled, then nods. "True." He glances towards the large picture window where the late afternoon sun is streaming in. "In Burrows' case, justice was eventually served, and in the end that's all that matters."

She stares at him. "That's it?"

He lifts his hands, as if in defeat. "What do you want from me, Sara?"

"An apology?"

"For what? For doing my job?" His voice grows louder. "For having faith in the system?"

"No," she shoots back, the words spilling out over her lips before she can stop them. "For not having faith in _me_."

His gaze narrows. "Forgive me for being blunt, but you haven't exactly given me many reasons to trust your judgment over the years."

"Believe me, I'm aware of that." The heat in her voice matches the heat in her face, but she doesn't care. This is not about Michael or Lincoln. This is about her and her father and the hard knot of bitterness lodged deep in her heart, the dead weight she's been carrying around for too long. "But you were so busy looking out for yourself that you didn't even give me – or Lincoln Burrows – a chance."

They glare at each other for a long, awkward moment, then he shakes his head. "You really don't think much of me, do you, Sara?" Without waiting for her to speak, he goes on quickly, "I've been thinking a lot about the talk we had before you left."

She feels her spine stiffen with resentment, and she tells herself she was foolish to think that anything had changed. "What about it?"

He studies her, his gaze open and direct. "Do you really believe that everything I've ever done for you, I did simply to protect myself?"

She swallows hard. Just as she'd discovered with Michael, the truth was often far more complicated than a lie. "Sometimes," she finally manages to say.

A heavy frown creases his brow for several seconds, then he sighs. "I can't deny that I never lost sight of my own interests." He gives her a sad smile. "But it was about you too, Sara, because you were all I had left after I lost your mother. And because I love you and it makes me very angry when I see you throwing your life away."

She stares at him, speechless.

"I made the wrong call with Burrows, I admit that." He sounds tired, almost defeated, and she feels some of her anger drain away. "But I only did what I thought was right; what needed to be done." He lifts one hand, then drops it. "I'm just sorry you had to be involved in this whole mess."

She lets out a shaky breath, suddenly feeling as though she's run a marathon. "So am I."

He glances at his watch, and she feels a abrupt and all too familiar sense of being dismissed. "If you've got another appointment-" she begins, one hand reaching for her handbag.

"What?" He looks up at her, puzzled. "Oh, no – I was just - do you have plans for this evening?"

"No." _Yet another understatement_, she muses wryly. She was certainly chalking them up tonight.

"Because I thought-" he hesitates, "I thought you might like to stay for dinner."

His expression is one of determined nonchalance as he carefully studies his hands, and she feels the dead weight around her heart grow lighter. Things between them may never be any easier than this, but for now, this is enough. "That would be nice."

 

~*~

 

Two weeks later, after a flurry of phone calls and more than a little indecision, she is on a plane once more, this time flying to San Francisco. The trip seems interminably long, something not helped by the fact that - despite her best meditative efforts - the butterflies in her stomach are refusing to lie down and die. She keeps her headphones on for the whole flight, trying to fill her mind with music as much to drown out the chatter of the couple next to her, but her stomach is still churning with nerves as the plane touches down. She's not sure that coming here is the wisest decision she's ever made, but it feels like the first step towards some kind of closure, and that can only be a good thing.

Slowly navigating her way through the unfamiliar airport, she finally makes it to the BART station, checks the note she scribbled while talking to Veronica a few days earlier, then boards the train that will take her to the 16th Street station. Once there, she checks Veronica's concise directions once more, then slowly walks the two blocks to her destination. She had briefly considered donning a baseball cap along with her dark glasses, but no one gives her a second glance, and she feels wonderfully anonymous.

When she reaches Valencia Street, she pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head and takes a moment to get her bearings. The air is filled with the scent of a dozen different national cuisines, making her stomach quiver. Doing her best to ignore the human traffic brushing past her, she stands on the sidewalk and scans the street, trying to pick the café Veronica named. Eventually finding it, she takes one last moment to steel herself, then pushes open the door.

After the bright sunshine, the inside of the café is dark, and it takes a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. It only takes a few seconds more to find Lincoln, and the sight of him dressed as a civilian has her doing a double take. As she'd expected, he's with Veronica and L.J., the three of them sitting at a round table in the corner. What she hadn't expected, though, was that they would seem like such a normal little family it would almost hurt to look at them.

She hesitates, suddenly filled with the urge to walk straight out again, her hand tightening on the shoulder strap of her overnight bag. Then Lincoln sees her, a grin spreading across his broad face as he rises to his feet. "Over here, Doc," he calls softly, gesturing for her to join them, and there's no escape. When she reaches his side, he shakes her hand a little too hard. "It's good to see you."

His smile is infectious, and she can't help grinning back at him. "You too."

"Hi, Sara." Veronica gives her a slightly awkward hug, then nods towards the teenaged boy beside her. "I don't think you know L.J.?"

"No." She smiles at Lincoln's son. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Hi." L.J. dips his head shyly, and Sara tries not to notice that he has his uncle's smile.

"Please, have a seat." Lincoln pulls out a chair for her, and she studies him surreptitiously as she sits. His hair, while still very short, is longer than she's ever seen it and as unexpectedly dark as Michael's had been. He's wearing a red shirt and black jeans, and it's odd to see him in a colour that isn't blue or grey.

"Freedom suits you."

He grins. "You too."

She looks at him, startled, not quite knowing what to say to that.

He sits down beside her. "I don't know how to begin thanking you."

"A double espresso would be good," she says with a bleary smile. "I had quite an early start this morning."

"I'll order you one," Veronica gives her a smile. "Not decaf, I'm guessing?"

"Definitely not, and thank you."

"Done." Veronica draws L.J. away with a gentle hand. "Come on, L.J., you can help me decide which piece of cake to split with your father."

Left alone, she and Lincoln sit and look at each other for a moment, and she wonders if he feels Michael's presence as strongly as she does. "How long will you be in town?" she finally ventures.

"Another week, maybe two."

"Done any sightseeing?"

"A little."

A sudden thought occurs to her, and she can't suppress the impulse. "Doing the Alcatraz tour?"

He blinks, then starts to laugh, the unfamiliar sound taking her by surprise. "I think I'll give that one a miss."

Still smiling, she traces a whorl in the wooden tabletop with her fingernail, trying to think of something to say that doesn't involve Michael. "Why did you decide to come to San Francisco?"

"Vee's got cousins here. After everything that's happened, she wanted to catch up with some family. And LJ still needs to decide where he wants to finish school, but I've told him there's no rush." He glances across the café to where his son is standing at the counter. "Right now we're just taking every day as it comes."

_I know the feeling_, she thinks but doesn't say the words. There's a sudden lull in the jazz music playing in the background, and conscious of the crowd around them, she waits for the next song to start before she says, "How's L.J. handling it all?"

"He's still a little ragged around the edges," he replies with a sigh. "Having some trouble sleeping, but that's pretty normal after you've been on the inside." He runs his hand over his closely cropped hair. "Some family, huh? The three of us locked up at the same time." A shadow crosses his face. "My mother would've had a fit."

"Actually, I think she would have been very proud of all of you," she says lightly as she studies him, noting the air of weariness he's not quite able to disguise. "And what about you? How are you doing?"

He hesitates, giving her the impression he's considering several different answers, but then he simply shrugs. "I'm okay."

L.J. reappears at the table, gingerly carrying a coffee cup and saucer. "Here's your coffee, Doctor, uh-"

"Sara's fine." Smiling, she takes the coffee from him. "Thanks."

Lincoln waits until his son rejoins Veronica – she's taken up temporary residence at a smaller table nearby and is discreetly studying the other patrons – before turning back to Sara. Elbows on the table, he leans closer, his eyes never leaving hers. "You know that it's not just for me that I need to thank you."

Her heart gives an odd little lurch. "No?"

"Back at Fox River, when you gave me my final physical-"

"Yes?"

"I asked you to look out for Michael after I was gone."

"I remember." She hadn't been able to answer for the longest time, afraid that anything she might say to Lincoln would give away the fact that she'd long lost sight of the distinction between prisoner and man where his brother was concerned.

"You said you'd try." He reaches across the table as if to touch her hand, then seems to think better of it. "But you already were, weren't you?"

She hopes her recently acquired tan is covering the blush she can feel colouring her face, but she doubts it. "I looked out for all my patients."

He gives her a look that plainly says she's not fooling him in the slightest, and she realises that there's no point in trying to pretend she doesn't feel the way she feels. Wrapping her hands around her coffee cup – it's still too hot to drink - she finally lets herself ask the question they both know has been eating away at her ever since she arrived. "How is he?"

"He's good. I saw him last week," he adds, giving her a faintly speculative glance. "I told him that you were back in the country and that I was going to be seeing you today." Amusement dances in his eyes. "He gave me the same look he used to give me when we were kids and he thought he'd just caught me cheating at cards."

Embarrassed, she manages a quick smile, then changes the subject. "Is he good as in normal person good, or good as in Michael good?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." He hesitates, his glance flicking away, then back again, every trace of humour gone from his dark eyes. "He doesn't belong in there."

"No." Her throat feels tight. "He never did."

He looks at her, startled, then she sees realization dawning in his eyes. "How much has he told you?"

She tries to smile, but it doesn't quite work. "Enough to make me understand."

"Did he tell you about our father?"

_Father?_ She shakes her head. "No, he didn't, but we didn't have a lot of time to talk." Her pulse flutters, remembering the reason why.

Lincoln sighs. "I'd better fill in the blanks for you."

Five minutes later, Sara is staring at him, stunned. Just when she thought she'd heard it all, along came something else to shock her to the core. "It was never about you."

"No." He scowls. "I was just the quickest way to get to Dad."

"Where's your father now?"

He shrugs, his voice tinged with bitterness. "He showed up long enough to testify against Reynolds and the Company, then he disappeared back into the woodwork."

"I don't remember seeing his name in the media at all."

"They kept it quiet." He snorts. "It's what they do best." He looks down at the table. "Anyway, he's gone, and I can't say I give a damn. He wasn't much of a father even when he _was_ around."

"I'm sorry." She reaches across the table, gently patting his forearm. "Some fathers just don't seem to be able to relate to their children." _The irony would choke her if she let it_, she thinks dryly.

He's silent for a moment, as though mulling over her words, then he frowns. "And Michael doesn't want you to visit him?"

She blinks, slightly taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. "That's right."

"Why not?"

She opens her mouth to answer, then shakes her head, knowing that any answer she might give would be so biased as to muddy the waters beyond all hope. "You'll have to ask him," she says evenly, reaching for the sugar.

"I did."

_Oh._ "What did he say?"

He shrugs. "That he was thinking of the bigger picture and that you understood why he didn't want you there." He watches her as he speaks. "He said it wouldn't be good for you to be seen visiting him, not after everything that's gone down." She nods, not quite trusting her voice. "And you agreed with him?"

"I didn't," she says shortly, shaking off a vague sense of disloyalty, "but it was his choice, and I respected that." She takes a cautious sip of her espresso, almost sighing with bliss. She's had better cups of coffee, but not many.

Lincoln exhales loudly, the exasperated sound of an older brother who's been there, done that. "You shouldn't let him have everything his own way, you know."

She can't help smiling. "Is that the voice of experience speaking?"

"Damned right it is."

They look at each other for what feels like a long time, then she leans back in her chair, wrapping her arms around herself. "Four years isn't such a long time," she says softly, unsure exactly who she's trying to convince.

"It could have been worse," he mutters. "We're both still breathing."

"That's definitely better than the alternative." She recognises the bleakness in his eyes; she's seen it in Michael's eyes. L.J.'s too, now that she's seen him in the flesh. They're all a little broken in one way or another, she realises, a sharp twist of regret tightening her chest, and she wonders unhappily if the scars will every truly heal. "How are you _really_ doing?"

He sighs. "It still feels strange to be out." He looks down at his empty coffee cup, then glances up at her, his eyes glittering. "Every morning I wake up and I think I must be dreaming because there's light coming through the window and Vee's beside me and I go into the kitchen and LJ is eating his breakfast." He shakes his head. "I never thought Michael would be able to pull it off. I should have known better."

The obvious pride in his voice tugs at her heart. "He's a very smart man."

"That day when he came to visit me at Statesville, when I told him I was being transferred to Fox River. He got this gleam in his eyes, you know? As if he could already see all the answers laid out in front of him." He shakes his head again. "I don't know why I was so shocked to see him on the inside. I should have known he was planning something when he left that damned crane behind the last time he came to see me."

She feels her eyes widen. "A paper crane? Like origami?"

"Yeah." He looks faintly embarrassed. "It's a family thing. I learned how to make them at school when we had a couple of Japanese exchange kids in our class. After our parents died, I used to make them for Michael." He shrugs. "Then when I got older and I wasn't home much, I'd leave them on his pillow while he was sleeping, so when he woke up he'd know I'd been watching out for him."

"He left one for me once." _While I was sleeping_, she adds silently.

"Is that right?" The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. "I guess that makes you family, then."

Once again, she feels the blood rush to her face. "I don't think he meant it quite like that."

Lincoln's smile becomes a smirk. "I know it's hard to believe with everything that's happened, but my brother doesn't do or say _anything_ that he doesn't mean."

She feels the very strong urge to bury her face in her hands, and wonders if this is what it feels like to have an older brother. If it is, she's suddenly grateful for her status as an only child.

As if deciding to take pity on her, Lincoln clears his throat. "I saw you, that night in the hallway," he says, and she looks up to find him watching her carefully. "I kept thinking you were going to bust into the infirmary and ask me what the hell I was doing there, but you never did."

Still distracted by the wish to have the earth swallow her up, it takes a few seconds before she processes the full meaning of his words. "Hadn't Michael told you he'd asked me to help?"

He shakes his head. "No."

Her next question is such an obvious one, she can't quite believe she needs to ask it. "How did you think you were getting out of the infirmary?"

"I had no idea." His smile is sheepish. "But Michael said we were, so..."

"So you believed him."

"Yeah."

She nods, knowing all too well the compulsion to trust Michael Scofield. "So, what will you do now?" She takes another sip of coffee, then gives him a smile. "Write a book? Go on Oprah?"

He chuckles at that, suddenly looking five years younger. "I think I'll leave that stuff to Michael. He's much better with words than I am. Anyway, there are other things I want to do." He looks across to where Veronica is chatting to his son, and his whole face softens. "They've been to hell and back because of me. I don't know how I'm ever going to make it up to them."

"I'm sure you'll do just fine."

"You too, Doc."

"You can call me Sara as well, you know."

He grins, and for a split-second reminds her so much of his younger brother that her heart twists. "Sure thing."

Perhaps noting that their conversation had taken on a lighter tone, Veronica drops gracefully into the chair beside Lincoln, sitting so close that her shoulder brushes against his. "Has he told you yet?" she asks Sara with a smile.

"Not yet." Lincoln looks at the woman beside him with such tenderness that Sara feels as though she's intruding. "I thought you might like to tell her."

Sara studies them both in turn, belatedly noticing Veronica's air of repressed excitement. "Tell me what?"

Veronica's face is suddenly alive with what Sara's father would have called the light of battle. "We're petitioning the Governor for a full pardon for Michael."

Her heart begins to pound. "What are the chances of it being granted?"

"Much better than they used to be, that's for damned sure,' Lincoln mutters, then looks at her as though he's only just remembered her last name. "No offence."

Sara waves her hand. More than anyone else in this whole mess, Lincoln Burrows has earned to right to be bitter. "None taken." She takes another sip of her coffee, more to give herself time to think than anything else. "But I thought Michael didn't want you to appeal his sentence?"

"We talked about it when I saw him last." He shrugs. "He told me to get Vee right on it."

"I wonder why he changed his mind," she murmurs, almost to herself. Lincoln and Veronica exchange a quick glance that speaks volumes, and she looks at them, puzzled. "What?"

Another silent conversation ensues, then Lincoln says in a quiet, flat voice, "Abruzzi's dead."

Sara blinks, not quite sure what that has to do with Michael finally allowing Veronica to appeal his sentence. "How?"

Veronica darts a quick glance at L.J., standing not two feet away studying the selection of cakes in the glass display case, while Lincoln's face is a picture of practiced non-disclosure. Sara decides not to press the point, instead asking a question more likely to garner an answer. "When?"

Lincoln looks at her with an expression carved from stone, and she can't suppress the irreverent thought that he would have made a good Secret Service agent. "Last week," he eventually replies with obvious reluctance.

_Last week_. She frowns, her head on the verge of spinning. "What are you saying? That there's a connection between his death and Michael's decision to petition the Governor?"

"John Abruzzi was a ruthless bastard who used everything and everyone to get what he wanted." As he speaks, he takes Veronica's hand in his, squeezes it tightly, his eyes dark with anger. "I'm not sure if Michael ever told you, but Abruzzi was the one responsible for his gardening accident." He literally spits out the last two words, his voice hard. "And let's just say that Michael and I didn't part company with him on the best of terms."

Realisation – cold and bleak – rushes through her blood, her last conversation with Michael replaying in her head. _You have to stay away. There are still people out there who would happily use you as leverage or bait or worse._

As so often seems to happen when Michael is concerned, she once again feels that odd juxtaposition of joy and grief. Just when she thinks he might be the one in need of saving, it seems that he is still watching over her. "The petitioning process," she says with a calm that belies the energy that is suddenly humming beneath her skin. "Tell me what I can do to help."

 

~*~

 

When Michael finally calls her, six weeks later, she's standing in the bedroom of her apartment, contemplating the unappealing task of sorting out her wardrobe. Picking up her cell phone, she stares in disbelief at the Caller ID for a moment, her heart racing at the simple word _INMATE_, then presses _answer_ with a shaking finger. "Hello?"

"Doctor Tancredi, I presume?"

The sound of his voice travels down her spine like a caress. "You presume correctly."

"How are you?"

"I'm fine," she says simply. Now is not the time to tell him of the uninteresting locum work she's been doing since her return or the fact that the thought of him rarely leaves her.

She hears him take a quick breath. "You may already know this, but I wanted to tell you that it looks as though I might be out of here a little earlier than expected."

She didn't already know and, amidst the rush of blood to her head, the thought occurs to her that Veronica and Lincoln have deliberately left it for Michael to deliver this piece of news. "Legally, I hope?" she asks in a voice that sounds as unsteady as her knees suddenly feel.

He chuckles softly in her ear, and she feels gooseflesh rise up all over her body. "Walking out through the front door."

She closes her eyes, one hand groping blindly for the edge of her dresser. "When?"

"Not sure yet. I'll call you when I know." He hesitates, and when he speaks again, the uncertainty in his voice makes her heart ache. "If you want me to, that is."

She presses the phone a little harder against her ear, as if that might somehow bring him closer to her. "Yes. I want you to."

He lets out his breath in a long, slow sigh of relief that she almost believes she can feel drifting across her skin. "Good." There is another moment's silence, but it's one filled with an increasingly heady sense of anticipation, rather than awkwardness. "I've been wondering," he says in a soft drawl that does odd things to the pit of her stomach, "what I might want to do once I'm out."

The sound of her breathing sounds very loud in the quiet room, her mouth suddenly feeling very dry. "And what have you decided?"

"Well, I know you've probably had enough of sun and sand, but-"

There's more than a hint of nervous laughter in his voice, and she finds her own mouth curving in a smile. "What did you have in mind?"

"I wouldn't mind buying a t-shirt to match that one of yours."

She wants to laugh. She wants to cry. Perhaps, she thinks as a pure wave of joy bubbles up inside her, she might just do both. "I think that could be arranged."

 

~*~


	7. Chapter 7

__

Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark.

~ George Iles

 

~*~

 

 

The next time she thinks she sees him, she blames the sun.

Because surely, she thinks as she watches him walk along the sand towards her, he cannot be wearing what she thinks he's wearing. She squints into the sun. No, she's not mistaken. When he last visited this place, he'd been masquerading as a well-heeled college boy. Today, he's sporting what can only be described as stoner chic - baggy khaki shorts that have seen better days and a lurid Hawaiian shirt over a long sleeved white t-shirt. And – she peers closer – battered skate shoes that are currently being soaked by the foamy wash of the sea.

"Nice outfit," she offers when he's close enough to hear, surprised she sounds so composed when her whole body feels as though it's vibrating like a wind chime.

Stopping a few feet from her, he brushes one hand down the front of the slightly crumpled white shirt, then gives her a quick smile that doesn't quite hide the apprehension in his eyes. "Thank you." He stares at her, his intent gaze sweeping her face - lingering on her mouth just long enough for her pulse to spike - before locking with hers.

The early afternoon sunlight makes his skin look more tanned than usual, his eyes a curious blend of green and grey, and she suddenly realises that she has never seen him outdoors, at least not without a wire fence between them. There is absolutely nothing between them now, and the thought has her shoving her hands in the back pockets of her linen shorts, returning his gaze with a calm that belies the hammering of her heart. After a few seconds, she lets her eyes drop to his shirtfront, then to his battered shoes, then back up again, knowing that despite the wardrobe, he's the most beautiful sight she's seen in years. "I thought they had to give you a new suit," she adds lightly.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "The powers that be obviously decided to make an exception in my case." His eyes darken as he looks at her, and she knows he feels it too, the invisible current of sexual electricity arcing between them. Her hands are literally itching with the urge to reach for him, to dip her thumb into the tanned hollow of his throat as she draws his face down to hers. But they're on a crowded beach and old habits die hard.

"I wasn't expecting you for another two hours."

"I caught the earlier flight."

"Right." He hadn't wanted her to be anywhere near Pekin when he'd been released three days ago, and she had been secretly relieved. Even though he'd been released a day ahead of schedule to avoid such a thing, it had been enough of a media circus that it had made the local news in Saint James. She'd turned the television off as soon as she'd heard his name mentioned, not wanting to see him being jostled by cameras and microphones. It would be much easier, he'd told her on the phone, for him to slip out of the country and into another in the early hours of the morning if he was alone. Much easier for her to check into the hotel by herself a few days beforehand, give herself some time to get used to the thought of him being out, as though she hadn't spent the last few months doing just that.

Just when she thinks she might go a little crazy with nervous anticipation, he starts to walk towards her, his eyes never leaving her face. When he reaches her side, he takes her hand, threading his fingers through hers, his palm fitting warmly against her own. She sucks in a sharp breath at the feel of his warm flesh against hers, the memory of his touch rippling across her skin. It doesn't seem possible that the simple touch of someone's hand could make you feel as though you were about to burst, but Michael Scofield has taught her to believe in a lot of impossible things.

"It's good to see you, Sara."

She grips his hand a little tighter. "You, too."

His other hand resting lightly on her hip, he bows his head, his eyes glowing with the same hunger that has her toes curling into the wet sand. She closes her eyes, then feels the soft touch of his lips on her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. His nose brushes against hers, his breath whispering over her lips, then he kisses her, the warmth of the sun on her eyelids no match for the gentle heat of his mouth. A dizzying rush of desire floods her veins, a soft sigh catching in the back of her throat as she opens her mouth to his kiss, tasting spearmint gum and coffee. The hand on her hip tightens, a shudder going through him, then he slowly pulls away. She opens her eyes to find him gazing at her with an unutterable tenderness that makes her heart race.

She opens her mouth to say something – anything – but she has the sudden feeling of being watched. Turning her head, she finds an elderly couple smiling at them indulgently, the whip-thin husband wearing a shirt almost identical to Michael's. Her face grows hot, and she turns back to Michael in time to see his rueful smile. "Perhaps we should talk somewhere else?" he says softly.

The last thing she wants to do at this moment is talk, but she's all for going somewhere more private. "Sure."

They begin to walk along the beach, her hand still tightly clasped in his, her other hand holding her leather slides, and she wonders if this is what it feels like to have a dream made reality. "Did you bring any luggage with you, or is this the extent of your wardrobe?"

"I did," He tilts his head to give her a look of mock indignation, "but I'll have you know this is the finest shirt I've ever stolen from my brother's closet."

She laughs, a breathless sound that feels as though it comes right up from the soles of her feet. "How _is_ Lincoln?"

"I spent the last couple of days with them." By _them_ she assumes he means Veronica and L.J. as well. "They're good."

"Did you tell them where you were going?"

"Yes."

She nudges his shoulder with hers, discreetly steering him towards the path that leads to the hotel. "What did Lincoln say?"

"Not much," he replies smoothly, the tips of his ears turning faintly pink beneath his tan.

She hides a smile. After her own conversation with Lincoln Burrows, she can well imagine the brotherly jibing that may have gone on. She briefly considers pressing him for details, but decides against it, knowing he would only find some way to deflect any teasing right back at her, and she's not sure she's up to that particular challenge just yet.

Conscious of him with every inch of her body, she falls silent as they reach the entrance of the hotel, and despite his earlier remark, Michael seems content not to talk. As they approach the uniformed doorman, Sara looks down at her sandy feet. "Wait, I need a minute."

She's barely finished speaking before his hand is beneath her elbow, his other hand taking her shoes from her grasp. Giving him a grateful smile, she dusts the sand from her feet as best she can, then reclaims her shoes. "Thank you." Her shoes back on her now almost sand-free feet, she takes his outstretched hand once more. The concierge nods politely as they pass, and Sara feels the urge to pinch herself. Strolling into a five-star hotel hand in hand with Michael Scofield is definitely a surreal experience.

"Have you already checked in?" she asks as they cross the hotel foyer. "Your luggage has already been sent up to the room?"

"Yes and yes." He looks at her, laughter dancing in his eyes. "Bit of a coincidence that you're staying in the same room as last time, don't you think?"

She hits the button for the elevator. "Not really."

His smile widens. "You old romantic, you."

"I'm making a concerted effort to be less cynical these days."

"How's that working for you?"

She flashes him a grin. "You tell me."

"I'll do that."

By the time the elevator arrives, there are several other people waiting with them, and she's not entirely sure she isn't glad. She'd thought she was ready to see him again, that she was ready to be with him. Now she's wondering if any amount of mental preparation would have been enough to deal with every single nerve-ending in her body going into spasm every time he touches her.

He leans against the wall in the hallway as she swipes her keycard through the door lock, then follows her into the room. She glances over her shoulder at him as she crosses the room to open the sliding door that leads onto the balcony, vaguely noting that his luggage has been neatly stacked on the floor near the writing desk. "What would you like to do? We could order room service, or unpack your things or go for a swim, or -" she turns to face him, her voice trailing off as his eyes met hers. She drops her hands to her sides as he closes the distance between them with two slow, deliberate strides.

"Keep going," he says as he starts to unbutton her shirt, his eyes gleaming. "You'll get there."

His mouth covers hers - cool lips and hot tongue – in a languid kiss that quickly becomes something quite different. She clutches at the front of his t-shirt, fingers twisting the soft material as her lips part beneath his and she's suddenly drowning in the taste and scent and feel of him. She closes her eyes as his clever hands skim over buttons and zippers, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill of the last several months from her bones. Perhaps she should say something, but she's far too preoccupied with pushing the Hawaiian shirt from his shoulders and sliding her hands underneath his t-shirt to touch the solid warmth of his chest and stomach, her fingertips dipping beneath the loose waistband of his shorts.

He mutters something beneath his breath, then he's half-lifting, half-pushing her towards the bed. Putting one knee on the mattress for balance, she curls her arms around his neck and kisses him, letting her teeth scrape against his bottom lip, pulling him down with her as she tumbles backwards onto the bed. She kisses his jaw, his throat, his shoulder, tasting salt and heat, the warmth of the sun lingering on his skin. His hands grip her hips, his thumbs and fingers tugging almost clumsily at her underwear and then his own clothes, his usual air of methodical patience seemingly deserting him.

He's still wearing his shorts when he gently pushes her back onto the bed, then slides down the length of her body, kissing the hollow between her breasts, then her stomach, then lower still. She feels his hands on her thighs, his fingers splayed wide, then he puts his mouth on her.

_Oh, my God._

His tongue slides deftly over her heated flesh, and she feels as though she's about to dissolve into the cool white sheets. She closes her eyes, the breath shuddering gently in her lungs, once again struck by that odd feeling of being suddenly plunged into an alternate world. Fifteen minutes ago, she was standing alone on the beach, and now she's lying on this bed and they've barely exchanged two words and the words _conjugal visit_ are twisting through her mind but, oh God, she doesn't give a damn.

Her heels dig into the mattress, her awareness narrowing to the heavy throb of arousal between her thighs. Her hands are on his shoulders, her fingernails biting into his skin, her hips lifting in mute supplication to the relentless pressure of his lips and tongue. Finally, he touches her, his long fingers teasing and stroking with spectacular accuracy, and she is lost. A pulsing rush of heat ripples through her womb and belly, stealing coherent thought from her mind and the bones from her limbs.

Her body feeling ten times heavier than usual, she rolls over onto her side and lies slumped in a warm heap of scrambled nerves for what seems like an eternity, vaguely aware of Michael moving to lie beside her, his hands stroking the length of her back. _I don't think I'll ever be able to move again_, she thinks dazedly, then he's kissing her, his mouth as warm and insistent as the touch of his hands on her body, and she feels the heat rising beneath her skin once more. Strangely enough, she manages to find the renewed energy to run her hands down his back, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. "You seem to have this problem with being overdressed."

"I had other things on my mind," he drawls softly, his hands sliding up her stomach as he bows his head to her breast. Swallowing a gasp at the gentle scrape of his teeth over her nipple, she cups the hard heat between his legs. He sucks in a sharp breath, arching into her touch even as he mutters a dark, "Just how fast do you want this to be over?"

"I don't care." Her fingers struggle with his zipper for a few frustrated seconds, then they're both pulling his shorts down and off and he's groaning as she wraps her hand around him. "I just want _you._"

"That fast, hey?" he mutters, his voice not quite steady, but his hands are already sliding up her thighs and underneath her bottom, lifting her up to him. She feels him against her, the sleek head of his erection brushing the lingering tenderness between her legs, then he presses himself deep inside her with one smooth thrust, making her whole body clench. "I dreamed of this," he whispers, his mouth hot against her throat. "I dreamed of you."

_Oh, Michael._ She wants to close her eyes, but the thought of not watching him, not seeing his face, is suddenly unbearable.

He begins to move, every roll of his hips reigniting her still tingling flesh, and she can't control the soft moan that pours from her throat. A tiny smile touches his lips at the sound, then the air leaves his lungs with a _woosh_ as she lifts her hips, wrapping one leg around his waist. Curling her hands around his neck, she pulls his mouth down to hers, kissing him fiercely, kissing him the way she has always wanted to kiss him, every day since they first met.

He's right - it's fast - but it's hard and it's good and he whispers her name against her mouth when he comes, his body shuddering in her embrace, and she's not sure if the tears she tastes on his lips are hers or his.

They lie tangled together without speaking, their skin slick with cooled sweat. Giving in to a long suppressed impulse, she runs her hand lazily over his head, enjoying the brush of his closely cropped hair against her fingers. She knows he doesn't indulge in false modesty, but she has to wonder if even he realises how much his customary hairstyle enhances the most beautifully shaped skull she's ever seen. She isn't sure if she was always this shallow when it came to physical beauty or if Michael simply brings it out in her, then she decides that she doesn't care either way.

After a few minutes, he props himself up on one elbow, gazing at her as he brushes the hair back from her damp forehead. "I'm sorry."

She touches his face, feeling the solid line of his jaw against her palm. "What for?"

"I didn't mean to -" he looks at her with a faintly embarrassed smile, "I didn't plan to pounce on you like that. I just-"

"Michael." _Shut up_, she adds silently as she puts her thumb on his lips. "I liked it."

His eyes darken. Turning his head, he kisses her palm, then gently touches the pendant around her neck with one finger. "You weren't wearing this last time."

"No."

"You wore it every day at Fox River."

"That I did." She smiles, both at the thought he'd remember such a thing – although she shouldn't be surprised - and the memory of the original owner. "It belonged to my mother."

"It's an abacus," he says softly, his eyes lighting up with delight. "I never realised."

"I didn't wear it for a while." She closes her eyes as he traces the outline of the pendant, his fingertips cool against her skin. "The clasp broke the night the paramedics brought me in." She opens her eyes to look at him. "I had it fixed before I left for Luanda. I missed having that little part of her with me."

He nods, as though he understands about keepsakes and she thinks he probably does, then he runs his hand up the length of her thigh, his mouth covering hers in a kiss that borders on obscene, and they don't speak for a long time.

Much later, they order room service and share an early dinner on the small balcony, and she can't help thinking that their first meal together is a lot more relaxed than she ever imagined it would be. They sip mineral water – he refuses a beer, even though she insists she doesn't mind – and watch the daylight fade into a soft pink and blue haze.

"How's your father?"

"He's coping," she replies, although an honest answer would be more along the lines of _he says he's coping, but I don't actually believe him._ She threads her fingers through his. "Yours?"

A tiny muscle in his jaw flickers. "No idea."

"Perhaps he'll resurface. He has no reason to stay away now."

He shrugs. "I don't care anymore, to be honest."

"Yes, you do."

He tilts his head to look at her, eyebrows raised. "You know, I think I liked it better when you couldn't tell if I was lying."

She grins, leaning over to kiss him softly. "Really?"

He lifts his hand to her face, his palm warm against her skin, his reply a soft whisper against her lips. "No."

That night, she lies in the darkness with Michael's arm heavy around her waist, the gentle touch of his rhythmic breathing on the nape of her neck. Closing her eyes, she pushes aside the disquieting sense of fractured reality and says a silent thank you – to God, to karma, to the universe – for giving him back to her. Whether or not he's still in the proverbial 'one piece' is another matter, she thinks, gently running her hand along his tattooed arm. For now, though, he's with her, and that's a good start.

 

~*~

 

They sleep late the next morning.

They sleep late _every_ morning for the next week and, by the fourth day, the circles under his eyes have begun to fade. They walk on the beach every day, and sometimes she watches their feet as they walk. She can't help but feel a sense of pride in how beautifully his left foot has healed, and becomes so used to the sight of the three long toes that she barely notices anything is missing. The burn on his back is almost completely healed as well, and she often finds herself running her fingers across the skin when they're alone, marveling in the smooth-rough texture of it, a small piece of blank canvas amidst the hieroglyphics.

She learns all the small things; how he holds his knife and fork, what movies he likes to watch, that he prefers to sleep on the right-hand side of the bed, that he likes to run his hands through her hair when it's still damp from the shower. She knows he'll try almost anything on a menu – as if he wants to taste everything just because he can - and that he prefers beer to liquor. She learns something new about him every day, but it's everything she doesn't learn that worries her.

She knows he dreams of Fox River - she's woken in the night to hear him muttering words she can't understand, his body twisting in her embrace - but she doesn't press him to share his dreams with her. When he's ready to talk about it, she tells herself, he will. There are times though, when he doesn't know she's watching him, that the darkness in his eyes makes her heart ache.

They talk about Lincoln and Veronica, his stories of their shared childhood making her smile. She suspects he's leaving out many unsavoury details, but again, she doesn't push him. Apart from Lincoln, the only fellow escapee he will discuss is his former cellmate. According to the newspapers, Fernando Sucre apparently remains at large, seemingly vanished from the face of the earth. When she finally asks him what happened to Sucre, Michael simply says, "He went home," with a faint smirk, and she's surprised to find the answer pleases her.

"Lincoln told me that Abruzzi is dead," she says hesitantly on the morning of their fourth day together. It's early – for them – and the crowds have not yet flocked to the pure white sand.

Michael's hand tightens around hers. "That's right."

She looks down at her bare feet, staring at the wet sand clinging to her toes, then glances at him. "How did it happen?"

"I didn't kill him, if that's what you're asking," he says in a flat voice, his eyes on the water.

It is, but she doesn't tell him that, because she's not sure if she's asking for her sake or for his. "I take it that it wasn't an accident."

"You could say that," he replies abruptly, then stops walking, his hand tugging at hers as she goes to take another step. "I'm sorry, it's just that-" He rubs his thumb softly over the inside of her wrist, making her pulse flutter, and she wonders if he can feel it too. "Can we not talk about this right now?"

"I shouldn't have asked."

"No, you should have." He smiles at her, but it doesn't quite chase away the shadows in his eyes. "But I'd rather talk about something more interesting this morning." Lifting her hand to his lips, he presses a lingering kiss to her knuckles. "Tell me more about your adventures with Max the Wonderdog," he says teasingly, alluding to the childhood pet she's beginning to regret mentioning.

Biting back a sigh, she contents herself with giving him a good-natured eye roll, bumping her shoulder against his as they start to walk once more. She does as he asks and tells him funny stories about her long-dead dog, her light-hearted words drifting away, leaving behind the uneasy certainty that they will only be able to pretend for so long.

 

~*~

 

After a week, they leave the hotel, wanting more privacy, wanting fewer walls around them.

The villa is small and very, very private. It also has _honeymoon suite_ written all over it, Sara thinks with faint despair as she drops her bags inside the door. From the canopy bed draped with pure white netting to the enormous bathtub with more spa jets than should be possible, it's enough to set her teeth on edge. It's not that she doesn't appreciate the opportunities such things provide, but she can't help resenting the implications that such romantic opulence brings.

On their third morning in the villa, he receives a Fed-Ex satchel from the States. She finds him sitting on one of the high kitchen stools, sheets of paper strewn across the top of the counter. After making the disappointing discovery they have run out of ground coffee for the machine and will have to make do with instant, she nods at the papery mess he's made. "What's all this?"

"Stuff from Veronica. Just some paperwork I have to sort out." He hesitates, then hands her a long, folded piece of paper. "Here."

She stares at the words for a moment. _Judgment for Dissolution of Marriage_. "Oh." The paper in her hand states that Michael Scofield's marriage to Nika Volek had been formally dissolved three weeks' earlier. She bites her bottom lip, then does her best to sound matter-of-fact. "Very thorough."

"Just thought you'd like to know," he says in a casual voice that's not casual at all, his eyes not quite meeting hers, and she wants nothing more than to pretend they're not having this conversation.

Tossing him a quick smile, she busies her hands by boiling the kettle. To be honest, she'd rather have no coffee than instant coffee, but it's either do this or think of something sensible to say on the subject of Michael's marriage. _What the hell is wrong with her?_ she thinks furiously. _Isn't this what she wanted? What she'd spent all those months waiting for? _

There's silence for a few moments, then he says softly, "It was only ever business."

Sara keeps her eyes on the task at hand, not wanting to look at him and relive the moment she saw him kissing his wife goodbye outside the conjugal visit room. "I believe you, Michael." Steam begins to puff gently out of the spout of the kettle, and she briefly entertains the foolish notion that perhaps the same will soon start coming from her ears if he doesn't change the subject.

He doesn't. "Nika told me something about you. The day she stole your keys, I mean."

She looks at him, hoping her inner wince at the sound of his wife's name - _his ex-wife's name_, she corrects herself - isn't showing on her face. "What?"

"She said that you cared for me."

Reaching out, she turns off the gas jet beneath the kettle, the bright blue flame flickering for an instant before dying. "Did that make it harder or easier to do what you did?"

He's staring at her now, the scattered paperwork seemingly forgotten for the moment. "Both."

They exchange a long glance that leaves her feeling faintly breathless, then she gestures limply towards the kettle. "Do you want coffee? Juice?"

He pushes the papers aside and gets to his feet, the almost predatory look glowing in his eyes making her belly shiver with lust. "Is there a door number three?"

Afterwards, lying in bed, he watches her through half-lidded eyes as she touches the intricate drawings covering his flat stomach. "Do they bother you?"

"No." She dances her fingertips over the delicate outline of the fallen angel, her fingernail lightly scoring Michael's skin as she follows the curve of its shoulder downward from his navel. "Do they bother you?"

"Sometimes." His hands are suddenly under her arms and he's pulling her upwards, her skin sliding against his in a smooth rush that makes her blood grow warm. "Not right now, though."

 

~*~

 

She loves him.

She loves him more than she can remember loving any man and she can't quite believe that she's not ecstatically happy to be here with him. She should be ecstatic, because he's here and he's safe and she's here and she's clean and they're better together than she could have ever imagined. But all too often - between the sex and the smiles and the touches and the soft words - he disconnects, his gaze locked on a point beyond the horizon and she knows he's a thousand miles away.

When it starts happening more and more, dark thoughts begin to skirt the edges of her mind, the word _inertia_ creeping into her head and sliding through her thoughts on a relentless loop. He has survived horrors that she can't begin to imagine and she wants so much to help him exorcise his demons – to escape the monsters – but she can't do that if he won't share them with her. She can't stop thinking that this is his reward for surviving, that _she_ is his reward and he hasn't thought any further than this bed and this place and the way their bodies fit together perfectly as if by design.

They bicker amiably, but it's never about anything other than where to have lunch or whether to share the shower or the bathtub. After another week of this physical and emotional meandering, the urge to prod him – perhaps even goad him – into talking about the future proves too strong to resist.

"Do you ever miss it?"

He glances up at her, toothbrush in hand. "What?"

She watches his reflection in the bathroom mirror. "Your job." She tries to laugh, but it sounds more like a nervous giggle. _Damn it._ "You know, life."

"Not really." He tilts his head to look at her, a frown tugging at his forehead. "Do you?"

"Sometimes," she says slowly, knowing she needs to choose her words carefully. "I miss being able to do my job. I miss helping people."

He rinses his mouth and pats his face dry, and she has the feeling he's using the time to decide the best way to answer her. "Maybe now's a good time for you to look after yourself," he finally says, hooking the towel back on the rack.

Leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, she shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans. There's a tiny curl at the nape of his neck, and if she gives into the impulse to touch it, it will be another hour before they get to breakfast. "Maybe."

He brushes his lips against hers as he leaves the bathroom, a mint-scented caress that makes her toes curl. She trails slowly after him as he walks down the hallway, and once she's beside him, he nods towards that morning's newspaper lying on the table, in which the latest allegations against the now-disgraced former President Reynolds are once again splashed all over the front page. "You took the job at Fox River because you wanted to make a difference." His eyes lock with hers. "Mission accomplished, wouldn't you say?"

"You and Lincoln and Veronica accomplished that." Her throat feels tight. "Not me."

He opens his mouth as if to argue with her, then gives her a bright smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, something that is happening all too often. "Didn't you want to visit the market in Saint James today?"

She doesn't want to look at the market. She wants to throw something. She wants to thump her hands against his chest until he looks at her, really looks at her, and lets her see inside his head. She wants to dive into the blue expanse of the bay and silently scream beneath the water until her throat is raw. Instead, she just smiles and takes his outstretched hand. "Sure."

She wants this to be more than a reward, she thinks with increasing despair. She wants this to be another life.

 

~*~

 

It takes three more days for her to summon the courage to voice the fear that has been keeping her awake at night. She waits until they're on the terrace, eating the grilled fish he's prepared – she mentally adds _good cook_ to his seemingly endless resume – and wishes briefly she was drinking something stronger than water. "What are we doing here, Michael?"

He quirks an eyebrow. "Having dinner?"

"You know what I mean." She spears a piece of fish and puts it in her mouth, chews it without tasting it. "What happens now?"

He reaches for his water glass. "What would you like to happen?"

"I'm not sure." It's galling to have to admit, after being the one to bring up the issue, but she wants to be as honest as she can. She pushes a piece of potato aside with her fork, then darts a quick glance at him. "I don't know if I'm ready to go back to the real world."

"You saying this isn't real?" Beneath the table, his bare knee bumps gently against hers. "I'm offended."

The brush of his skin on hers is distracting, but she ignores it as best she can. "You know what I mean."

He sips his water slowly, his eyes searching her face. "You're talking about going back to Chicago."

"Yes."

"We don't have to go back to Chicago. We can go wherever we want."

"Isn't that running away?" She holds her breath, realising the hypocrisy of her words; she'd run all the way to Angola to escape the memory of him.

His jaw tightens, but his tone is still mild. "No, it's living."

The thought of wandering the globe together would be enough to make her skin tingle if she didn't suspect it would be for all the wrong reasons. "Don't you want to stay close to your family?"

"LJ has one year left in school, then who knows where they'll end up?" He flashes her a sudden grin, and she wonders if he and his brother have already discussed this particular subject. "Besides, airfares are cheap."

"So." She inhales a long, deep breath, twisting her hands in her lap. "What happens to you and me?"

One elegantly shaped eyebrow lifts once more. "You could keep working with DWB, if that's what you wanted."

"What would you be doing?" She puts down her fork, giving up any pretense of her appetite still being in existence. "Are you planning to work again?"

He puts down his glass with exaggerated care, the pressure of his fingertips leaving marks on the misted surface. "I don't know."

"Then what would you do? Sit around and watch me inoculate babies?" He says nothing, and she feels a resurgent flicker of her old anger. She's not sure exactly with whom she is angry, but the thought of him wasting any more of his life is unbearable. "You're a brilliant man, Michael. Are you telling me you'd be happy to spend your life in some remote dustbowl while the rest of the world goes on without you?"

He flicks a vaguely harried glance in her direction, then looks away. "We could work something out."

She lets out a shaky breath. "How?" She hears the despair in her voice, and wonders if he hears it too.

He does. His gaze narrows and, for a brief moment, she is back in the infirmary and the gulf between them feels insurmountable. "If you can't see how, Sara," he asks in a hard voice, "then why are you here?"

She says nothing; there's nothing she _can_ say that will make any sense. It's the same old problem - how can she explain what she doesn't fully understand herself?

A thick silence falls between them - she ends up pushing her half-empty plate aside - and ten minutes later when he announces that he's going for a walk on the beach, she doesn't offer to join him. The relief in his eyes only serves to make her feel worse.

After he leaves, she wanders aimlessly around the small villa, ending up lying on their bed, flicking through a local newspaper without enthusiasm. It's a bad idea. The rumpled sheets smell like Michael's shaving cream and her soap, and she's already become far too accustomed to having him beside her. The king-sized bed feels vast and cold, and she finds herself staring at the newspaper print until her eyes blur, her heart aching with the knowledge that she has made things worse and she has no idea how to make them better.

The room is much darker when she finally hears the sound of his bare feet on the tiles in the hallway. Swinging her legs off the bed, she straightens her clothes, then takes a deep breath that does nothing to calm her tangled nerves. She still has no idea how to make things right between them, but she has to try.

As she walks down the hallway, she thinks of something Lincoln had said to her when they'd met in San Francisco. _You shouldn't let him have things his own way all the time_. Lifting her chin, she feels the welcome sensation of her mental heels digging in. Michael Scofield might well be the most stubborn man she's ever met, but even the most stubborn of men can be open to persuasion.

She finds him on the balcony, sprawled on one of the white lounge chairs, watching the sunset slowly bleed into the pure blue water of the bay. He looks as lost as she's ever seen him, the emptiness in his eyes tearing at her heart, and she knows that she cannot bear to let him go.

He doesn't look up as she puts her hand on his shoulder, and she falters slightly when she feels the tension in him. "I'm sorry," she says softly, looking down at his achingly familiar profile. "I guess this is still all a little unreal for me." She rubs her thumb over the tight muscle in his shoulder, and he slowly begins to relax into her touch. "I just feel as though I'm treading water here."

"I like it here," he says softly. Wistfully. "It's peaceful." He stares at the tangerine skyline, his eyes laden with thoughts she knows better than to ask him to share, and she feels that damned gulf between them widen a little more.

"I like it here too, Michael," she whispers. "It's just – I'm afraid that we're fooling ourselves." Her eyes feel hot and gritty. She'd like to blame the sand and the sun, but she knows better. "That this – you and me – isn't going to work in the real world."

He twists around, swinging one foot off the lounge chair, then tugs gently on her hand to pull her down until she's sitting in front of him between his legs. "I thought you were working on that whole cynical thing."

"Hard habit to break, I guess." Avoiding his eyes, she trails her finger along the deep v-neck of his white shirt, enjoying the rare sight of him in short sleeves, the buttons undone almost to his waist. His habit of wearing long sleeves persists, but tonight the air is lush with humidity and his skin is flushed with a lingering heat from his walk on the beach. As she has done many times before, she traces the outline of the angel's wing with her fingernail, a hollow ache tightening her chest. His tattoos are mysterious swirls of bluish haze in the half-light, and she knows she would never grow tired of looking at them.

"Are you worried about what your father will think?"

"Of course I am." The thought of breaking the news that she is involved with Michael Scofield to her father is the stuff of nightmares, but she shakes her head. "But that's not the reason. There are still so many things I don't know about you." She gives him a tremulous smile that feels odd on her lips. "And I'm not sure I ever will know them."

He sighs heavily, but there's no anger in his voice. "Don't you think, after everything we've done to get here, to get to this point, that we owe it to ourselves to try?" He brushes the hair out of her eyes, his fingertips dancing lightly over the curve of her ear. "Or are you afraid that this is just one more thing in your life that's not going to last?"

Not for the first time, she silently despairs of his photographic memory. _I don't like getting attached to things if I know they won't last._ Oh God, she _wants_ to try. She wants to trust him with her heart the way she trusts him with her life, but she's still afraid and she doesn't know how to stop. "Michael, I just don't know if - "

"I'm in love with you."

He says the words without ceremony, so casually that it takes a few seconds for them to impact. She stares at him, her heart reeling. "Oh."

The smile he gives her a faintly bashful one that makes her stomach flip over. "And there _are _answers to your questions."

There's suddenly a lump in her throat the size of a fist and only one question she wants to ask. "How long have you been in love with me?"

"I don't know exactly," he says simply, "but it feels like a very long time."

The sound of the ocean is loud in her ears, then she realises it's the rush of her pulse. "I lied to you once."

His hand is resting lightly on the curve of her neck. She can feel the warmth of his touch all the way down her spine. "You did?"

"You asked me if I ever thought about it, about _what if_. If maybe, in another life, you and I might-" She blinks away the sudden blurring in her eyes, twisting her hands together in her lap to keep herself from reaching for him. "I did think about it," she finally whispers. "I thought about it until I wanted to hate you for it."

He's watching her with hooded eyes, his expression an odd blend of wariness and hope, and the urge to reach out and touch him is now almost overwhelming. "I wanted to hate you for it but I couldn't." The words she knows he wants to hear are burning on her tongue. It's been a long time since she said them, even longer since she said them and meant them with all her heart. "I tried so hard not to fall in love with you," she finally whispers, "but then suddenly I was and I still am and it terrifies me."

He cups her face in his hands, his palms warm against her skin, his eyes glowing. "I'm in love with you and that's not going to change." His hands never leave her face but she feels the familiar touch of them everywhere, her skin prickling with recognition. "I'm ready to take a leap of faith if you are."

She opens her mouth to speak - there are still so many dark little doubts clamouring to be voiced - but when she looks at him, sees the soft desperation in his eyes, they all fall silent. She can walk away from this man because she is afraid, or she can reach out and take his hand and everything that comes with it.

_A leap of faith_, she thinks as she looks at him, and it is suddenly very simple. She made her decision long ago, although whether it was after their first kiss, their first touch or that first glance, she may never know. What lies between them is the sum of so many things and it's what she wants - more than she's ever wanted anything - and that is all that matters.

She leans forward and touches her mouth to his in a soft, almost chaste kiss. Her hands rest lightly on his chest; pale yet strong against the indigo patterns that mark his skin. He stays utterly still, his lips cool against hers, the thrum of his heartbeat steady beneath her palm. Drawing back, she lets herself smile and for the first time in days she doesn't feel as though she's pretending. "So am I."

His answering smile lights up his face, and she feels the spark of anticipation begin to glimmer beneath her skin. Murmuring her name as though it is a precious taste on his tongue, he slides his fingers through her salt-tangled hair, lifting her face to his. There are still many secrets between them, but his flesh is solid and alive and real beneath her hands, his kiss as gentle as the warm breeze that teases the nape of her neck, and she is no longer afraid.

 

 

~*~


End file.
